


Death Never Stopped Me Before

by ElliahRose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Breakups, Complicated Relationships, Diary Horcrux, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Flashbacks, Fluff, Forbidden Romance, Harry Potter Whump, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Master of Death Harry Potter, Nagini is a Horcrux, Obsession, Possessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Voldemort, Regret, Sassy Harry Potter, Smart Harry Potter, Smut, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Voldemort as his own warning, Voldemort is whipped, Voldemort loves Harry Potter, Voldemort whump, in his own way, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliahRose/pseuds/ElliahRose
Summary: “Oh my love,” Voldemort sighed. “Aren’t you tired of this endless running? You don’t look well. All this writhing in the dust like a hunted animal doesn’t suit you.”Harry struggled against the binds keeping him in place, his breaths coming out in sharps pants as he twisted away from his touch.He’s a monster, he reminded himself, forcing himself not to think about how gentle he could be with him. How much he missed his touch.You need to run from him, run far, far away. You are in the middle of a war!“I’m tired of chasing,” Voldemort continued, stepping closer to Harry’s struggling form. “Of indulging this little game of yours. Let’s stop pretending there’s anywhere you could run where I would not find you.” He paused in front of Harry and knelt down, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek possessively. “Let’s stop pretending you want to be anywhere but my arms, hmm?”“Go to hell!” Harry spits, jerking away from his touch. “I’m not yours!”“And that, my love, is where you’rewrong,” Voldemort said with a crazed smirk. “Nothing, not even death, could keep me from you. You always have and always willbelong to me!”*Expanded summary inside*
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley
Comments: 285
Kudos: 1828
Collections: Gale Wind, Harry Potter Centric Fanfiction, Harrymort/Tomarry Recs for the Soul, TomarryFics





	1. Chapter 1

**Expanded Summary:**

“Oh my love,” Voldemort sighed. “Aren’t you tired of this endless running? You don’t look well. All this writhing in the dust like a hunted animal doesn’t suit you.”

Harry struggled against the binds keeping him in place, his breaths coming out in sharps pants as he twisted away from his touch. _He’s a monster_ , he reminded himself, forcing himself not to think about how gentle he could be with him. How much he missed his touch. _You need to run from him, run far, far away. You are in the middle of a war!_

“I’m tired of chasing,” Voldemort continued, stepping closer to Harry’s struggling form. “Of indulging this little game of yours. Let’s stop pretending there’s anywhere you could run where I would not find you.” He paused in front of Harry and knelt down, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek possessively. “Let’s stop pretending you want to be anywhere but my arms, hmm?” 

“Go to hell!” Harry spits, jerking away from his touch. “I’m not yours!”

“And that, my love, is where you’re _wrong_ ,” Voldemort said with a crazed smirk. “Nothing, not even death, could keep me from you. You always have and always will _belong to me_!”

. . .

Voldemort had finally won. He defeated the light and gained control over Magical Britain, and in the process, he had lost everything. As he remembers how he met, fell in love with, and ultimately lost Harry Potter, he realizes that in his greed, Voldemort had ruined everything that ever mattered to him. But when new information comes to light, it’s a race against time to bring Harry Potter back from the dead and reconcile their relationship or risk losing the love of his life forever...

...Even if it means getting help from what’s left of the Golden Trio.

* * *

* * *

  
  
The forest was silent, and for a moment, it seemed as though time itself had stopped. As the green light faded, the forest came back into view, and details he hadn’t noticed before seemed to scream at him. The bark on the trees is dark, and the stark contrast from the dark black bark to the neon green of the moss seemed almost unreal. He could feel tiny droplets of rain splattering against his cheek, and he could hear the sound of each droplet hitting him like it was the bang of a drum. The silence of the moment was so deep, it was like a physical presence, pressing down on his chest. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

And then the moment was over, and time started up once more. The world, still in hyperfocus, seemed to have sound once more like it was coming out of a deep tunnel. He could hear the birds chatter and take flight just as clearly as he could hear his heartbeat thudding against his ears. He felt the cool rain soak his robes and chill him to the bone just as clearly as he could feel the blood rushing to his head. 

He couldn’t _breathe_. 

All of this took place in a matter of seconds, but it felt much longer. It felt as though an eternity had passed since he watched the light hit him, a direct hit to his chest. A harsh breath tore its way out of his throat, and suddenly he was moving. He was no longer frozen in place, as he had just seconds earlier, and with his newfound mobility, he ran towards the fallen figure a few yards away from him. 

He did not care for the cheers that erupted around him, and he did not care about the mournful howls that came from the fallen giant to his left. He ignored everything around him in favor of reaching him. His feet connected with the wet Earth messily, and the sound of his footsteps was lost to the noise he heard all around him. 

He fell to his knees, paying no mind to the mud that drenched his clothes, and he let his hand move forwards shakily. He was able to see the man clearly now, close enough now so that all of the man’s features were in focus. 

His inky black hair lay strewed across the ground, and as the rain fell down, it matted his hair to his face and the mud. His skin was pale, unnaturally so, and as his fingers brushed across his cheek with the utmost tenderness, he could feel the warmth slipping away. He trembled as he pulled the pliable body into his lap, ignoring the jeers from his followers, and gently tilted his head. The man’s face was scratched up and rough from the fight, bruises and scrapes covered most of his face, and he could see a trail of drying blood running from his temple to his chin. He lightly brushed away the blood, and he could feel his chest clench when he realized just how cold the man felt in his arms when his movement caused the man’s head to fall back limply. The harsh movement caused his bangs to shift and he was greeted with a sight that he knew would forever haunt him. 

Where his eyes should have been bright and shining like emeralds in the sun, his eyes were empty and dull. There was no spark of life in those eyes. 

“You… You bloody bastard,” he whispered, and though his words were venomous, his voice came out weak and empty. “You always have to… have to have the final say, don’t you? You… How could you…” 

The man did not respond, but that was expected. After all, dead men can’t speak. 

“Leave me,” he said, and he could hear the cheers begin to quiet, however, the sobs from the giant did not, and he grit his teeth. “LEAVE ME!” he screamed, his hands clenching around the man’s robes. “LEAVE ME! GO! GET OUT! RETURN TO HOGWARTS!” 

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the man that lay limply in his lap, but he could hear his followers shuffle away. He waiting until he heard nothing but the rain and the harshness of his breaths before he let out an enraged scream. His scream echoed across the silence, and he could hear the caws of the birds as they flew away from the noise. 

His chest felt like it was on fire, and his eyes were burning and his hands were shaking and everything was _wrong_. He screamed again, but it broke before he could finish, and suddenly he couldn’t hold back. The sobs tore their way out of his throat so violently he gagged. 

He bent down over the man, protecting him from the rain, and wept. He screamed and raged as tears poured out of his eyes like faucets. He had not cried since he was a young child, knowing that crying was a useless thing to do and was not productive in any way. Only weak men cried, and he was anything but weak. 

He felt weak. 

How could he not? He held the slowly cooling corpse to his chest and buried his face into the man’s knotted hair. He could smell him, a scent so uniquely him, that it made his lungs burn. He was weeping so hard now that he couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone had plunged their hand deep inside his chest and squeezed until nothing worked right. 

“How…” he cried, his voice hoarse and ragged as the taste of his tears invaded his mouth. “How could you… you… How could you do this?!” 

He squeezed the body closer to him, clutched to it like a lifeline, but there was no comforting warmth. The man was dead, had been dead for however long he’d been sitting here weeping. Everything was wrong and he didn’t know how he was supposed to fix it. 

“You were supposed to stop me!” he screamed, pulling back to stare at the man’s lifeless eyes. “You weren’t supposed to… This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down! You had the opportunity to—” he choked, the words dying in his throat. 

There was no one to blame but himself. He did this. He cast the killing curse. He was dead because of him. He brought his hand up to cup the man’s cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth against his cheekbone. 

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His tears ran down his cheeks and landed on the man’s face, mixing with the raindrops. “Please, please come back. Not… Not like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

The body was cold now, and he could feel the chill seep into his bones, and as he sat there, clutching the lifeless body of his lover to his chest, he wondered if he’d ever feel warm again? 

“Please,” he begged, his knuckles turning white from the grip he had on the man’s body. “Please wake up, love. I… _I can’t do this alone_.” 

Voldemort stared into the empty eyes of Harry Potter and wept.  
  
  
  
  
  
| _1992_ |

Tom didn’t think he could do this for the rest of eternity. He didn’t know how long it had been since he was placed in the diary, but the insanity he felt creeping up on him grew closer and closer each day. He supposed it was his fault—or rather, the main self’s fault that this was happening to him in the first place, but he refused to lose his brilliant, magnificent mind to sheer boredom. 

He was never supposed to be _awake_ in the diary. Tom should have done more research before he performed the ritual, but when the opportunity arose in the accidental death of that mudblood, he knew he had to act fast. But after decades of being trapped inside a book with nothing for entertainment or company, Tom could freely admit that he regretted rushing into it so quickly. 

That being said, Tom had spent his time of imprisonment well, as he came up with several different brilliant plans on how to escape said prison should the opportunity arise. Better to be prepared, he always said. So when an opportunity showed itself in the form of one Ginerva Weasely, Tom was prepared to do what needed to be done to get out of the hellhole he’d been rotting in. 

Ginerva “Call me Ginny” Weasely was perfect for his plans, and he had no trouble manipulating her to rely only on him. Tom had always excelled at twisting people so thoroughly around him that they never even realized. 

Everything was going exactly the way he wanted it to, Ginerva had slowly begun losing time, and Tom had begun to drain her of her magic and he could feel the strength returning to him. He was just about to begin the next stage of his plan when he pushed too hard, too fast, and lost everything. 

Despite not being able to see in the traditional sense, Tom was fully aware that he was currently shoved down a toilet. 

If Tom had a physical form, he would be scowling right now. How dare that little wench leave him in a toilet! It was one thing to realize one was being manipulated and attempt to get rid of the manipulator but to leave a clearly sentient object in a bloody _toilet_? That was just needlessly cruel, and that was coming from him! 

As he sat there, his pages slowly absorbing the toilet water and making Tom feel unbearable soggy, he struggled to come up with a new plan. Thanks to Tom’s quick thinking, once he realized what Ginerva was doing, he was able to pull a large amount of her magic into the diary, enough to sustain him for an entire year should the need arise. Tom knew that because of this, the girl would be drawn to the diary, subconsciously desiring the diary and her missing magic. It was only a matter of time before she would return for him, so all he had to do was wait. 

However, he didn’t have to wait for long. 

The magical presence he felt was not Ginerva’s, as he assumed she’d be the one to find him, but someone new. This new presence was considerably darker than the Weasely chit’s lighter than light magic, and it was better suited towards Tom’s dark core, which would make absorbing it easier. The magic was grey in nature, a little more dark than light, and incredibly _powerful_. The power would’ve made Tom tremble if he had a physical body, and he could feel his own magical signature spread out in an attempt to connect with the magical presence. 

When his magic made contact with the new magical presence, Tom couldn’t help the shiver that went through his consciousness. This power… This signature… It was perfect. Tom had never felt such incredible magic before, and the magic seemed to brush up against his own and make his magic swell up and sing. Tom had heard once, years and years ago, back when he was a tiny First Year in Magical Theory, that some wizards have a magical twin. The idea of another witch or wizard having a magical signature perfectly suited for his own had always intrigued Tom, but he never thought he’d find one. 

And yet… 

Tom could feel the mysterious person pick up his diary, and Tom internally smirked, burrowing his magic deeper into the new signature. The magic was comforting and oh so warm, it made Tom want to wrap his arms around the person and never let them go. This magic that was truly his match was special, and he never wanted anyone else to feel it. 

Tom could feel himself being placed in a book bag, and he mourned the loss of the mysterious person’s warm hands holding him. Luckily, Tom was close enough to the person that their magic was still wrapped tightly around each other. 

Tom didn’t know how much time had passed since he was placed in the bag, he lost himself in the feeling of that beautiful magic that seemed to mirror his own so wonderfully, and when he was pulled out and placed on a table, Tom was finally jolted back into awareness. He could feel the mysterious person open his cover and Tom felt anticipation rise up in him as he waited for the person to write to him. 

Finally, after several tense seconds, Tom could see words being spelled out in front of him, horrendous handwriting that no doubt belonged to some boy. _My name is Harry Potter_. 

Tom raised an eyebrow, staring at Harry Potter’s chicken-scratch handwriting with surprise. Of all the people he expected to pick up his diary, Harry Potter was not one of them, much less be the mysterious person with beautiful magic. 

Tom had heard all about the great Harry Potter from Ginerva, the poor girl’s obvious hero crush was practically drowning her, and Tom couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t intrigued in the boy. Not only had he survived a killing curse when he was just a baby, but he also supposedly defeated his elder counterpart, an impressive feat. He wanted to know more about the boy and had intended to kidnap him when he had enough power to do so. 

What fantastic luck that his target had come to _him_ instead. 

“Hello Harry Potter,” Tom spoke, watching with satisfaction as his words were transferred into writing. “My name is Tom Riddle. May I inquire as to how you got my diary?” 

He could practically feel Harry’s hesitance, and Tom could feel his magic spike in shock at the diary’s response. Tom was rather patient, though, and he had no problem waiting for Harry to decide what to say. After all, Tom was used to playing the long haul, and his game just got quite interesting. 

_I found it in a girl’s toilet_. Harry wrote, and Tom frowned internally at the reminder of his disposal. _How can you write back to me?_

“I am a very special diary,” Tom said with a smirk, knowing that double meaning would fly over the child’s head. “I am very fortunate that you found me. I would be so sad if I stayed in that toilet forever.” 

Which was true enough in a sense, as it would be incredibly counterproductive to his plans to be stuck in a girl’s toilet. _Why would someone throw you away?_ Harry asked, and Tom could not fight the amusement that bubbled up inside him. How adorable. Harry truly was naive, wasn’t he? 

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Tom said, allowing carefully manufactured sadness to enter his tone. While it wouldn’t be visible in his writing, he knew Harry would pick up on the sadness through Tom’s careful grip on his magic. “Perhaps I wasn’t useful anymore. I’m used to being thrown away.” 

Bingo.

Tom could feel Harry’s magic spike with sharp hurt and understanding before it tightened with determination. Tom knew he’d said the right thing when Harry’s grip on his diary tightened and he began to hastily scrawl out comfort. 

_That’s horrible_ , he wrote. _I know how you feel. People get rid of me when I’m not useful too. Would you like to stay with me? I promise I won’t get rid of you_.

Tom internally smirked dangerously, pleasure coursing through him at his successful manipulation. He gave his affirmative response and continued to speak about this and that with Harry Potter, slowly sinking deeper and deeper into his tantalizing magic. 

_Oh, Harry_ , Tom thought gleefully. _You should be more mindful of the promises you keep._  


* * *

  
Harry, Tom found, was a very agreeable person. He did not argue with his peers much, didn’t _speak_ to his peers much. He wasn’t like Ginerva in the sense that he did not fill his diary with endless nonsense about what one girl said to her and how much she wished someone else would notice her. 

No, all of the conversations Tom had with Harry consisted of a polite greeting, redundant small talk, and finally questions, hundreds and hundreds of questions. Harry was a very inquisitive boy, and Tom adored it. Every time Harry asked him a question about history, or school, or sports, Tom took advantage of the situation to twist himself deeper into Harry. 

The beautiful magic may have started as Tom’s favorite part of Harry, but it did not take long for _Harry_ to become his favorite part of Harry. There was just something so enchanting about Harry’s curiosity, Tom simply couldn’t resist. 

_What do you know about dangerous creatures, Tom?_ Harry asked. 

Tom, having finally secured enough magic to manifest a physical form inside the diary, raised an eyebrow. “That depends on what creature you’re referring to.” 

_There’s… I think there’s something in Hogwarts._ Harry explained. _Something is turning the students to stone_.

Oh. Tom smirked as he leaned against the wall of his diary. So the basilisk was still hunting students, even though Tom had not visited the chamber is quite some time? That was good. “I’m not sure what kind of creature could turn people to stone,” Tom lied. “Are you sure it isn’t just a spell?” 

_None of the counterspells are working on the students._ Harry said, and Tom could feel Harry’s magic sink in despair. _I’m worried they might close Hogwarts._

Tom smiled. “Not worried about the students?” he asked playfully, while secretly happy about the phrasing. Perhaps his Harry was not the shining Golden Boy everyone thought he was. 

_Well, I mean, of course, I’m worried about the students! Who wouldn’t be! They could get hurt and_ —

“Harry, I was only teasing, love,” Tom said, interrupting the boy before he got carpal tunnel. He smirked when the boy’s magic spiked at the pet name. “But out of curiosity, why are you worried about the school closing down? I’m sure your family would be happy to have you home early.” 

Harry’s magic did a funny thing then, a sort of flinch and swell, like he was shocked but forced himself to remain indifferent, and Tom frowned in confusion. Harry’s response was slow, and it took a while for Tom to receive anything other than an inkblot as Harry held his quill over the paper without writing anything. 

Finally, he wrote, _My relatives and I don’t get along so much._

Oh? Well, wasn’t that just intriguing? Tom curled tighter around the boy’s magic as he spoke, unconsciously caressing the magic until it shuddered. “I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.” Tom said. 

_It’s fine_ , Harry assured him, lightly tapping the diary in an adorable attempt at comfort. _You didn’t know. No one does._

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” Tom asked curiously. 

_Because it’s not that big of a deal_. Harry said. _I can deal with it just fine. I don’t want other people to get involved_.

“I see,” Tom said carefully. “Forgive me if I overstep, but I’ve heard that talking about can really help, and it’s not like I can interfere since I’m just a diary.” 

The pause was longer this time as Harry mulled over Tom’s words, and Tom could feel his hesitance through his magic. Tom hoped Harry would indulge and spill all his secrets to him. It would certainly make his plan easier. Finally, Harry placed his quill on the parchment and began to write. 

_They’ve never hidden the fact that they hate me_ , Harry began. _They never wanted me, but I was found on their doorstep, and for some reason, my Aunt decided to keep me. I later realized they kept me they could get free labor._

Tom frowned, a strange emotion rising in him at the thought of a young Harry Potter being forced to do manual labor for his cruel relatives. For some reason, the thought didn’t sit well with him. 

_I had a huge list of chores every day, and if I didn’t finish each and every one of them, I’d be punished._

“Punished how?” Tom asked, his hands clenching into fists at his side. 

_They’d lock me in my cupboard_ , Harry said. _They often withheld food, too._

“They starved you and locked you in a cupboard?” Tom asked an image of the cold cellar of the Orphanage flashing into his mind. “This seems like quite a bit more than just, ‘not getting along’.” 

Harry stiffened. _It’s fine._

“If you want to think that, that’s fine,” Tom said placatingly. “However, I think deep down you know that’s not okay.” 

_Honestly, Tom, it’s not that big a deal_ , Harry wrote. _I can deal with it just fine, and it’s not like I live there for a long time anymore._

“What would happen if they closed down Hogwarts?” Tom asked. Harry’s magic seemed to burrow into itself, fighting to make itself seem as small as possible. Tom raised an eyebrow because that was not normal. He wondered if Harry knew what an obscurial was. 

_They’d open it back up eventually, right?_

“I suppose so,” Tom said. “They’d have to.” 

_Then it would be fine_ , Harry said. _I’d be fine. I’ll be fine._

In a moment of curiously genuine sympathy, Tom reached out with his magic with the intention to comfort rather than manipulate. He allowed his magic to circle Harry’s to the best of his ability and tightened softly. It was the only way Tom could give his boy a hug. Harry’s magic shuddered pitifully and reached back towards Tom gently, ad if it were asking him to stay. 

Tom smiled. “You don’t have to be fine, you know,” he said gently. “It’s okay to not be fine. I can be not fine with you.” 

Tom felt more than saw Harry’s smile. _Thanks, Tom._

“Anytime, love, anytime.”  


* * *

  
Something had changed after that. 

Tom found himself noticing things he never had before, found himself looking at Harry in a brand new perspective. Before, Tom had thought of Harry as a means to an end, a pebble in his path towards freedom. But after seeing how similar the two really were, Harry had somehow managed to slip into the tiny box in the back of his brain reserved for things that _belonged_ to Tom. 

Tom was delighted to see that he wasn’t the only one with a new perspective, as Harry had fully opened up to him after their conversation. Tom was used to the slight sense of hesitance in his magic whenever they spoke, but ever since that conversation, that hesitation was nowhere to be found. 

Tom enjoyed the ease of their new relationship, and he soon forgot about his plan to manipulate Harry and use his magic to escape the diary. The very idea that Tom would kill Harry made him incredibly uncomfortable. The idea of never being able to have those little conversations with Harry, of never being able to feel his warmth, of never feeling his incredible magic made him grit his teeth. 

It did not become glaringly obvious that Harry Potter belonged to him, however, until a few weeks later, when he was reunited with Ginerva Weasely. 

As Tom wrapped himself further and further around Harry, tight enough that Harry could never escape him, he’d forgotten entirely about Ginerva. In his desire to get closer to Harry, the lure he’d been using to get Ginerva to take the diary back was abandoned. Unless he directly tugged on the magic he’d gained from the girl, Ginerva would not seek him out, and as he was content with Harry, he saw no need to.

But that didn’t mean the addiction Ginerva had would go away. All she needed to become obsessed with his diary once again was a single touch. 

And touch she did. 

Harry had been walking to class after breakfast, diary clutched to his chest as he walked, a finger lightly tapping a rhythm onto the cover of the diary. Tom was content with the closeness he felt towards Harry, his magic engulfed with the boy’s in the most beautiful way. 

He had just been thinking of ways to tease Harry later so that he might blush when he was suddenly flying in the air. The feeling of his magic being ripped away from Harry’s left Tom on edge, and he was tense as he waited for Harry’s warm hands to pick him up once more. 

“I’m so sorry Harry! I didn’t see you there!” a female voice called. Tom struggled to hear the conversation happening outside of the diary, as he wasn’t strong enough yet to catch it all. “Here, let me help you.” 

“Oh… um, thanks.” Harry’s musical voice said, and that was the only warning Tom had before he felt a familiar hand brush over his diary. 

Ginevra Weasely held his diary in her arms, and he could feel her magic brush against his own desperately. It was so drastically different from Harry’s, that he couldn’t help but draw back. How had he ever thought that her magic was superior? 

“That’s… That’s mine,” Harry said shyly, clearly in reference to the diary. Tom knew it wasn’t really the time, but he allowed a smirk to rest across his face when Harry called him ‘his’. “C-Can I have it back, Ginny?” 

Ginevra’s grip on his diary tightened for a moment, and he could feel her magic swell dangerously before she relented. “Yeah, here. Sorry about that.” 

He finally felt Harry’s warm hands wrap around his diary, and he smiled happily. But Ginerva was not done testing his patience today, as she quickly stepped forward to wrap Harry into an awkward hug. He could feel that Harry was as surprised as he was, but that did nothing to soothe the possessive anger that curled in his stomach. 

How dare that wench put her hands on _his_ Harry?!

When she let go, Harry stumbled slightly before he waved her off. “That was weird.” he muttered to himself, and Tom could not agree more. It was weird and it was not allowed. Tom grit his teeth as his magic spread out to envelop Harry in his own hug, erasing the presence of the girl. 

He would kill that girl for touching Harry. How dare she touch him when even Tom couldn’t? Tom froze, his eyes widening as he realized his mistake. In his desire to burrow himself deep into Harry and make the boy rely solely on him, he hadn’t realized that Harry had burrowed his way deep into _Tom_. 

How long had it been since Tom thought about his plan? 

Tom needed to take a step back and focus on what was important. Tom couldn’t protect Harry if he was just a diary! It was time to continue with his plan so that he might take Harry away where he’d be safe and well-protected. It was time to use Ginerva once more, punish her for touching what belonged to him, and regain a physical form. 

“Harry,” Tom asked later when it was late in the evening and Harry was almost asleep. He knew that soon, Ginerva would sneak into the dorm to take the diary, but he wanted to know the answer to the question that had been burning in the back of his mind lately. “If I was a real person, would you be my friend?”

_I’m already your friend, Tom_. Harry wrote sleepily. _Don’t be silly_.

“What if I was a physical person? Would you want to go somewhere with me?” Tom asked.

_Go? Go where? Like to a beach or something?_

“Perhaps,” Tom said carefully. “Or maybe we’d go to a cottage in the countryside? Would you like that? Going somewhere quiet, just the two of us? Somewhere we can be friends forever?”

_That would be really nice_ , Harry wrote, and Tom felt a rush of pleasure at the thought of having Harry all to himself. _We could get a chicken and I’d have a vegetable garden. I wish that could happen, for real._

Tom smirked. “It will, love,” he promised. “Don’t worry. Soon it will be just us.”

_You’re being silly Tom_ , Harry wrote, and his words began to blur together as he fell asleep while writing. _You’re just a diary. We can’t go to a cottage together._

Tom just smiled as Harry finally sank into oblivion, his magic relaxing as he slept. It didn’t take long for the door to creak open and Ginerva to sneak into the room. When he felt the diary being lifted and pulled away from Harry, Harry’s magic unconsciously stretched out, reaching towards him. 

“Don’t worry, love,” he said, erasing the words as soon as they were written. “You’ll have your cottage. We’ll be together soon. Just you wait.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Voldemort didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there for, but his knees protested as he struggled to stand, trembling under the weight of his lover. By now, his robes were completely soaked through, and his hands shook from the cold. The sun was beginning to set and he could see the beautiful sunset as he walked towards Hogwarts, where the sounds of fighting continued. 

The war continued, even as he grieved the loss of his love. 

His grip on Harry’s corpse was tight, and he refused to use his wand to lighten the weight. The thought of making it easier to carry the body of the man he loved—the man he _killed_ —made his mouth taste bitter. His stomach rolled with nausea but he didn’t vomit. 

His feet were bare as they trudged through the mud, and later hard stone. There were bodies all over the place, rubble from Hogwarts and splinters of wood scattered all across the ground. Voldemort held his high, even as a hush fell over the crowd of dueling wizards. 

Voldemort allowed himself one last expression of agony before he schooled himself and forced an emotionless mask to cover his face. Harry was dead—his chest squeeze once again and Voldemort couldn’t _breathe_ —and Voldemort needed to finish what he started or he would have died for nothing. 

Later… Later Voldemort would grieve. Later he would lie down on his bed and sob at the unnatural largeness of it now that Harry’s comforting weight wasn’t there to fill it. After the last fight, Harry hadn’t been in Voldemort’s bed. When the war had reached its peak and their unstable relationship was tense enough to cause Harry to run away after one fight, Voldemort slept in his bed alone, but it never felt wrong because he knew soon he’d get Harry back. It was only a matter of time before Voldemort caught him and convinced Harry to return to their bed and their relationship. 

Voldemort couldn’t do that now because Harry was gone for good and Voldemort was all alone. 

So yes, Voldemort would grieve. But he could not do that right now. Right now, Voldemort had a part to play. 

And play it, he did. 

As he finally reached the center of the fighting, gasps were heard all around as the people got a glimpse of what Voldemort carried in his arms. He could hear the light side break down and sob, openly grieving for their savior in a way Voldemort wished he could too. Instead, Voldemort forced a cruel sneer onto his face and called out triumphantly. 

“The war is over,” he said, his voice echoing across the silent courtyard. “As you can see, your savior is dead and you have lost. Surrender now, or join your savior in his fate.” 

All around him, people cry, calling out for Harry and demanding to know how this happened. He looks to his left to see Minerva McGonagall shaking her head. “You’re lying!” she cried. “Harry isn’t dead! You’re… You’re lying!” 

Voldemort scoffed. “Whyever would I lie about such a thing?” he asked, knowing that the teacher would not understand just how true that statement was. “Harry Potter… Is dead!” 

_Harry laughed, his head tilting back to expose his jaw where the start of a lovebite could be seen._

_Harry yelling at him, his beautiful emerald eyes alight with a righteous fury as he threw whatever he could get his hands on at him._

_Harry sobbing, gasping out with pleasure as he arched against Voldemort’s hold, his hand reaching up to grasp Voldemort’s shoulder tightly, his fingernails biting into his skin._

_Harry running away from him, ignoring Voldemort’s calls and demands to return home. To return to_ him. 

_Harry, such a bloody hero, showing up in that forest, despite Voldemort’s internal pleas for him not to._

_Harry, letting that curse hit him instead of dodging to the left into the stunner._

_Harry’s dull, empty eyes._

Voldemort sucked in a sharp breath and his grip on Harry tightened. “HARRY POTTER… IS DEAD!” he yelled, ignoring the horrified shrieks that left the crowd as they realized that Voldemort was serious. Finally, the cries of defeat were heard as the light side accepted their loss. 

In the commotion of the Death Eaters collecting the main rebels and confiscating wands, Voldemort looked up to the sky. The clouds were dark and heavy as the world seemed to match his grief. “Harry Potter is dead.” he whispered to himself. “My darling is dead.” 

In his grief, Voldemort didn’t notice Harry’s eyes twitch.


	2. Chapter 2

| _1992_ |  
Even now, as he fought so desperately to undo everything Tom had worked so hard for, he was _magnificent_. 

Tom couldn’t tear his eyes away from the boy as he dodged spells and threw punches left and right. It was rather regrettable, Tom supposed, that Harry had shown up when he did. This was certainly _not_ the plan. The plan was to drain Ginerva of her magic, retain a physical form, abduct Harry and take him away where the two could be together in freedom. He knew from the moment Ginerva put her hands on Harry that Harry wasn’t just another person that held his diary. Harry was different. 

Harry was _his_. 

Tom had no intention of letting Harry slip through his fingers, and he knew in time, Harry would understand that. He just needed the boy to stop fighting and corporate, or this was going to make Tom’s life so much harder. He stepped to the right just as Harry threw a piece of stone rubble at his face and sighed. 

“You should really stop this pointless fighting, love,” Tom said, shooting another stunner in Harry's direction, only for the boy to throw himself to the ground and dodge. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“Don’t you dare call me that!” Harry spit, his face drawn together with rage. Tom fought back the desire to smile fondly at him. Harry was just so… 

“Adorable.” 

“What did you just call me?!” Harry cried, his breaths coming out in sharp pants, clearly exhausted. That was good, Tom could work with exhaustion. The more tired he was, the less of a fight he’d put up. Harry’s mesmerizing emerald eyes trailed up to meet Tom’s, and whatever expression was currently on his face scared him, as Harry blanched drastically and stumbled back. “You’re… You’re crazy!”

Tom clicked the back of his teeth. “That’s not nice Harry,” he said with a pout. “Come on, love, you’re hurting my feelings here.” 

“Tom, please,” Harry said, his voice softening. Oh. He thought he could reason with Tom. Tom’s smile widened. Harry really was adorable, wasn’t he? And smart, too. He thought that he could reason with Tom because they had an emotional connection. While it was clever, it wouldn’t work, but Tom would give him credit for trying. “Please. I know you. This isn’t you. You’re just desperate, right?”

“You’re so smart, love,” Tom said, his grin firmly planted on his face. “I am desperate, do you know why?” 

Harry frowned. “Y-You want to get out of the diary, don’t you?” 

“I do, but do you know _why_ I want to get out of the diary?” Tom asked, leaning forward in anticipation. Tom had high hopes for his Harry, and he could only hope that he would be clever enough to catch on. 

“I… I don’t know! Because it’s a diary and you’re miserable?!” Harry cried, a hand coming up to nervously tug at his inky black hair. 

“Oh, Harry, I’m disappointed,” Tom said with a sigh, raising the wand that he’d lowered slightly during their conversation. Harry tensed. “But you are rather distracted, so I think I’ll give you a pass just this once.” 

“Tom—”

“I want out of this diary for _you_ , Harry.” Tom said, watching with satisfaction and Harry froze, his jaw dropping as he stared at Tom with shock. 

“W-What?” 

“Don’t you remember? Our cottage. We can do that now,” Tom said, stepping forward, his free hand reaching out towards the trembling boy. “Aren’t you excited? It will just be you and me… and a chicken, I suppose. Though, I’m not sure what we’d do with one of those.” 

“Y-You’re serious?” Harry asked, his voice coming out in an incredulous whisper. “The c-cottage? That’s what this is all about?”

Tom frowned at Harry’s tone. “Well that’s not what it’s _all_ about,” he said. “There are other reasons too. But this was one of them. What’s wrong, I thought you’d be happy?”

“Happy? _Happy_?” Harry suddenly began laughing, and Tom’s frown deepened. His laughter was not the usual happy chimes that Tom had grown to enjoy, no, this laughter seemed almost hysterical. Tom didn’t like it. “Tom this is crazy! _You’re_ crazy! You have to see that, don’t you?! I mean… I mean I’m _twelve_! I’m just a kid! You’re just a kid! We can’t just run away together!” 

“Sure we can,” Tom said, stepping even closer, noting with displeasure as Harry flinched away from him. Oh no, this would not do. “Once I have all of Ginerva’s magic, I will have a full physical body. I might need the diary for an anchor, but I can be with you all the time, just like we wanted!” 

“What we wanted? Tom, this isn’t what I wanted!” Harry said, shaking his head. 

“But… you said you wanted to go to a cottage together. You said you wished it was real! _You_ said it!” Tom snapped, the anger that he had been holding back rushing to the surface. “The vegetable garden! The chicken! The beach! That was all you!” 

“I was half-asleep!” Harry snarled, his anger coming up to match Tom’s. “You can hold me to that! I didn’t know what you were asking of me! I’m only twelve, Tom! You’re… I don’t even _know_ how old! Why would you want to run away with me?!”

Tom stopped, his eyes widening with shock. Of course. No wonder Harry is so confused. Tom suddenly let out a chuckle, relief flowing through him like blood. Harry wasn’t rejecting _him_ , he was just confused. Somehow, his brilliant, wonderful boy hadn’t seen. Didn’t know. 

“Because I love you,” Tom said seriously, watching with satisfaction as Harry’s breath hitched in the back of his throat, his eyes widening impossibly big. “I want to run away with you because I love you and want to be with you.” 

This, right here, this was what Harry needed to know. That he had the reassurance he needed, he would be jumping for joy and eager to run away with him. Tom only wished he had seen it sooner, perhaps then all this time wouldn’t have been wasted fighting.

“You… _love_ me?” Harry asked, the wide-eyed expression not leaving his face. 

“Yes.” 

“Tom that’s… that’s _crazy_!”

“Harry…?” Tom frowned, watching with confusion as Harry began to pace, his hand tugging harshly on his hair. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. Why was Harry acting so weird? 

“You don’t love me! You don’t even know me!” Harry cried. 

“I know everything about you, Harry James Potter. I know your favorite book. I know your favorite food. I know that your nose wrinkles when you concentrate. I know you cry when you see other people being hurt. I know you hate Professor Snape and I know potions is your favorite subject despite that,” Tom said softly, walking up towards the frantically pacing second year and placing his hands on both of his shoulders, stilling him. Harry looked up at him, his eyes wide and lost. “But most importantly, I know you're _mine_.” 

“I… I don’t know _you_.” Harry whispered, his eyes filling with tears. 

Tom sighed. He should have known this would come up eventually. And Harry was right, of course. He didn’t know Tom, not at all. He knew the Tom that Tom wanted him to know, but if Tom wanted Harry’s reciprocation, Harry needed to know the truth. Tom knew that Harry would understand, after all, Harry was his. 

“You’re right,” Tom said softly. “You don’t know me. And for that I am truly sorry. But I think I’m ready for you to know me.” 

“Really?” Harry asked. Tom nodded, lifting a finger to wipe away a stray tear. 

“Yes,” he said. “There was a reason I stayed with you, you know. I could’ve been taken back by Ginerva much sooner. Was going to, in fact, before I found out who you were.” 

Harry’s eyes filled with confusion. “What do you mean? I thought you were only doing this because you got desperate,” he said. “Do you mean… was this always your plan?” 

“But when I found out the boy who rescued me from the toilet was none other than Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, I just had to stay,” Tom continued, ignoring Harry’s question. “After all, I needed to know how you did it.” 

“Did what? Survive a killing curse?” Harry asked bitterly. 

“How you defeated him,” Tom corrected. “The killing curse is impressive, yes, but not nearly as impressive as defeating him. I needed to know.” 

“Him? Voldemort? Why do you care about him?” Harry asked. Tom smiled. 

“Because, my little love, Voldemort is my past, present and future.” Tom said. Harry stiffened in his grip before slowly pulling away, his eyes boring holes into Tom’s, searching for something. 

“What… what does that mean?” he asked carefully. 

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Tom said softly, letting the letters float up into the air before they rearranged into their new name. “I am Lord Voldemort.” 

Harry was frozen in place, his body stiff and cold as he stared at Tom with horror. Tom expected this, of course. It was only natural that Harry be wary, but since Tom had already confessed his love to him, Harry would forgive him and then they could run away together. It was perfect, really. 

What Tom didn’t expect, of course, was the right hook smashing into his nose. 

Tom reared back in shock, his hands flying up to protect his face instinctively. The pain in his nose was strong, and he could feel the blood gushing through his fingers. Harry broke his nose. Harry _broke_ his nose. His eyes were wide with shock as he stared at Harry, heaving breaths out like he was about to vomit, his face drawn up with seething rage. 

“You killed my parents!” he snarled, lunging forward for another hit. “You jerk! You monster! I thought you were my friend!” 

“Technically, _I_ didn’t kill them—” Another hit, this one aiming for his gut, one that Tom only barely managed to avoid. 

“SHUT UP!” Harry screamed. “SHUT UP! You—… I can’t believe I ever trusted you!” 

“Harry, I understand you’re upset, but really. Isn’t this a bit excessive?” Tom asked, dodging yet another hit. Harry was practically spitting with anger. “Please calm down, love. We can talk about this at the cottage.” 

“The cottage? Are you barking?! I’m not going anywhere with you!” Harry spit. “Leave Ginny alone, Tom!” 

Tom straightened, his eyebrows drawing together into a dark scowl. He really didn’t want to have to do this. Tom had been hoping that Harry would be willing to corporate, it would certainly make living in the cottage together less tense. Ah, well, better luck next time. Tom was sure Harry would understand. 

“I’m sorry, love,” Tom said, watching as Harry ceased his anger-fuelled attacks in his confusion. “But I’m afraid I can’t accept that. You’re coming with me whether you want to or not.” 

“What—”

_$Come to me, O’ Great Serpent King,$_ Tom hissed, calling forth the great Basilisk that had been his friend for several years. The chamber rumbled as stones moved to accommodate the giant, fifty-foot snake that slithered out of his nest. Harry’s eyes widened comically as he stared between the snake and Tom. _$Capture the boy. Do not harm him, I need him subdued, but alive.$_

Harry let out a harsh gasp before he turned and sprinted towards Tom, his hand reaching out desperately for the wand that Tom held in his hands. Tom only smirked and stepped back, watching as he threw himself to the stone ground when the snake lunged for him. 

Harry fought magnificently, but Tom shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything about Harry was magnificent, really. The great snake chased after the boy, and at every twist and turn, Harry was forced to jump, dodge, deflect and run away. He really was quite agile. That would come in handy when he was older, Tom supposed. 

Whilst Harry was distracted by the Basilisk, Tom walked back to where Ginerva’s slowly cooling body lay. She wasn’t dead yet, but she soon would be. The second the last of her life force left and transferred to Tom, Tom would be able to leave and take his prize with him. 

He nudged the girl’s face with his foot, amused in a morbid sense at the way her head just moved back to its original position with no motion. It was almost time, it wouldn’t take long now. He looked back towards Harry who was currently ducking under beams and rolling out of the way of the Basilisk’s large tail. 

“You know it’s better this way, don’t you love?” Tom asked, leaning against a pillar to watch Harry’s fight. “This is for the best. For the both of us.” 

“Sorry, I don’t talk… to crazy people.” Harry said in between gasps. 

Tom clicked his tongue in disapproval. “What’s crazy about wanting to be with the one you love? Everyone does that, don’t they?”

“It’s crazy if you’re… a psychopath who murdered their parents… and is three times my age,” Harry panted, shooting a glare in Tom’s direction. “And I’m twelve.” 

“I don’t want a romantic relationship with you yet, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Tom said, fiddling with the wand in his hand. “I merely want to rescue you from this place. We can have a relationship when you’re older.” 

“There… are _so_ many things wrong with that sentence… I don’t even know where to start!” 

“You can list your grievances when we arrive at the cottage,” Tom said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I promise to listen to you.” 

“You’re not listening to me!” Harry cried, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “I don’t want to go with you! You’re nuts, and I’m not going near you—”

“HARRY!” 

Tom let out a scream when the Basilisk closed his mouth around Harry’s arm. Harry had been distracted while talking to Tom, stopping still where he stood and causing the snake to overshoot in shock. The momentum caused the snake’s mouth to crash into Harry’s unprotected arm. 

Harry fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings were cut. Tom let out a hoarse cry as he ran over to where his Harry lay. _$I told you not to hurt him!$_ Tom hissed, his arms wrapping around Harry’s slender frame. 

Harry’s _dying_ frame. 

The fang from the Basilisk had snapped off inside Harry’s arm, and Tom knew from one glance that it was too late. It would take less than a minute for the venom to travel through Harry’s bloodstream to his heart and brain and kill him. 

For the first time in Tom’s very, very long and emotionless life, Tom felt a horrible feeling rise in his chest and choke him. His hands trembled as they held Harry’s head close to him. Harry’s eyes were wide open, wet with tears that filled and spilled down his cheeks. “T-Tom—”

“Shh,” Tom said, running his finger through Harry’s hair in an attempt at comfort. “Please, I’m so sorry…” 

Harry’s hand shook as he lifted it to pat Tom’s cheek. Tom let out a hoarse, choked chuckle at the gesture, only to frown as Harry’s hand moved to the wound on his injured arm. Tom let out a surprised gasp when Harry tore the fang out of his arm. Without the fang to staunch it, blood began to pour out of his wound like a waterfall. 

Suddenly, a loud call could be heard overhead. Tom looked up to see the Headmaster’s phoenix burst into the chamber in a puff of fire. The phoenix took one look at Harry’s fallen form before it let out a sad trill and began to cry. Tom watched as the new creature mourned Harry’s loss, and Tom wished he could cry as well. 

Tom knew he couldn’t feel like regular people, and while it was a gift for him, there were moments in his life where he wished he could feel like he was supposed to. He’d never had reason to grieve before, but Harry… Harry was his everything. He only wished he could cry for him, like Harry deserved. 

But he would never cry, not even for Harry’s death, which tore apart of him he didn’t even know he had. 

He sat there, Harry’s dying figure resting on his lap, a crying Phoenix sitting on Harry’s chest, waiting for the choked gasps to die out. Only, they didn’t. In fact, they began to get stronger. Tom watched as color began to return Harry’s cheeks and his breathing got easier. 

“What… Of course,” he said, his eyes moving from Harry’s body to the still-crying Phoenix. “Phoenix tears. They can heal anything.” 

The Phoenix let out another trill, almost as if it were agreeing with him. Harry’s hand reaching up to grasp Tom’s shoulder pulled his attention back to the no longer dying boy in his lap. “T-Tom.” he cried, his body trembling. 

“There, there,” Tom whispered. “Everything is fine now. You’ll be okay. It will be over soon. Go back to sleep, and when you wake, we’ll be in the cottage.” 

Harry struggled to lift his chest up, so Tom helped him. He was surprised when he felt Harry’s arms wrap around his shoulder in a tight hug. The affection, while unexpected, was very much welcome. Tom leaned his head in Harry’s sweaty hair and smiled. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, his tears soaking the shoulder of Tom’s robes. “I’m so sorry, Tom.” 

“It’s all forgiven, love,” Tom said, his hand reaching up to caress the back of Harry’s head. “You were scared. I forgive you.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Harry sobbed. 

Tom let out a choked gasp when pain filled his entire being. He pulled back to see Harry watching him with sorrow, tears trailing down his dirty face. In his hands was Tom’s diary, and stabbed in the middle of it was the Basilisk fang that had been in Harry’s arms. 

“Oh, Harry.” Tom whispered, his eyes moving from his destroyed diary to the face of his distraught prize. “What _have_ you done?”

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Harry repeated, his hands shaking viciously. “I… I had to…” 

“Oh, Harry,” Tom said, allowing a look of pure adoration to cross his face as he reached up his hand to hold Harry’s cheek. His thumb brushed across Harry’s cheekbone tenderly, and Harry leaned into the touch slightly before Tom dug his fingers into Harry’s cheeks. Harry let out a surprised cry as Tom leaned forward, close enough that their noses were practically touching as he hissed, “You’re so naive. Do you really think I won’t find you again, my little love?”

“Tom—”

Tom pressed a gentle kiss to Harry’s temple before a smug smirk curled across his face. “I will find you, Harry,” he said as his body began to disintegrate. “I will find you and take you because you will always, _always_ belong to _me_.” 

With that, Tom crumbled into dust. 

Harry sat there, his wide eyes not leaving the spot where Tom had just been sitting. He knew that he needed to check on Ginny and make sure she was okay, but he needed one second. Just one second to deal with the riptide of emotions in his head, each one threatening to drag him under. 

Harry held Tom’s destroyed diary to his chest and wept.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Voldemort sat in the Headmaster’s office of Hogwarts, his head resting in his hands as he stared at nothing. It had been three days since the Battle of Hogwarts. Three days since the death of his beloved. Three days since he placed Harry’s body in a glass coffin, taking inspiration from the muggle fairytale in some sick twisted hope that Harry might return to him. 

He couldn’t bear to put Harry’s body in the ground. 

It was quiet in the office, unnaturally so. Voldemort had gotten used to Harry’s loud rants about saving the Wizarding world as he paced around his office after one of Voldemort’s common kidnappings. Harry, with his louder than life personality, was Voldemort’s only source of noise. Without him, the world felt unbearably silent. 

“I don’t know what to do, love,” Voldemort whispered, letting his head fall back against the plush office chair. “You’re not here. This… This was supposed to be your job. I take over and you change it for the better, remember?” 

The office had not been changed since Severus took over for Headmaster, but with Severus in St. Mungos for snake venom, no one had been able to clean it out. While Voldemort was the technical monarch of Wizarding Britain now, he had made no moves to change anything yet. 

The Ministry was under his control, but he left the Minister to run things how he saw fit while Voldemort hid in the Headmaster’s office of Hogwarts, unconsciously twisting Harry’s wand in his hands as he stared out the window at the quidditch field below. 

Harry loved quidditch. 

“None of your friends are dead, Harry dearest,” Voldemort continued, watching as raindrops hit the window. It had not stopped raining since Harry died, as though the world was grieving with him. “They’re in the dungeon cells right now. I know that I have to kill them… They’re the face of the rebellion. I _have_ to.” 

He sighed and pulled his hands through his hair in frustration. Harry had always loved his hair. When he was first resurrected, Voldemort expected there to be a lot of physical defects from the ritual, but due to the horcrux returning to him in 1993, his soul was mostly intact. He had come out of the cauldron looking like a twenty-five-year-old Tom Riddle, and he was quite grateful for his appearance. After all, it helped him woo Harry. 

“I have to…” he continued, slamming his hands down on the desk, ignoring the rattles from the glass figurines. “It’s expected of me. But… But every time I see them, all I can see is you.” 

_Harry’s bright green eyes lighting up his entire face as he talked about his friends and the shenanigans they got into during school—_

With a frustrated scream, Voldemort wiped everything off the desk, the sound of glass shattering breaking the tense silence of the room. His breaths came out in tense pants, each breath forcing its way out of his lungs. 

“I’m getting weak,” he hissed. “I have to kill them! I have to! A public execution at the least—”

_“I don’t know what I’d do without them,” Harry whispered, a rare occurrence after a night of passion. Voldemort trailed his fingers up Harry’s spine as he spoke. “Hermione and Ron, I mean. They’re… They’re the only family I have left. They’re_ precious _."_

A hoarse sob tore its way out of Voldemort’s throat, sending him crashing to the ground from the strength of it. His hands clutched his chest as heaved out sobs, convinced that the horrific pain he felt meant he was dying. This was what death felt like, he was sure of it. 

“What am I supposed to do?!” he cried, his voice hoarse and wrecked from the tears. “I don’t know what to do! I need you here to guide me!” 

Voldemort wondered if perhaps this was what hell felt like. Perhaps it was him who had died in that forest, not Harry. It would explain the unbearable agony that flowed through Voldemort’s veins like blood ever since that day. 

Voldemort, suffering through hell on Earth. It was almost poetic, in a way. Voldemort, having finally achieved everything he’d ever dreamed of, more miserable than he’d ever been in his entire life. Including spending ten years as a bodiless wraith. He was in hell because the one person he’d ever loved was dead and Voldemort couldn’t follow him. 

“I wish you were here,” Voldemort whispered so quietly, he could barely hear it himself. “I wish you were here with me. Where you belong.” 

Not, Voldemort thought bitterly, like you ever belonged to me in the first place. Clearly, their last fight—the one that sent Harry running from him, embarking on some ridiculous, suicidal mission backpacking in the middle of the woods for a year—had proved that. 

All the things he said… 

The things he wished he could take back…  
  
  
_“All you care about is taking over Britain!” Harry screamed, his voice echoing through Voldemort’s private study. Voldemort breathed in deeply through his nose, reminding himself to stay calm as he dealt with his angered lover. “It’s clearly the most important thing to you!”_

_Voldemort growled in frustration. “I am taking over Britain whether you want me to or not,” he said firmly, ignoring Harry’s bitter laugh. “I thought we went over this. Just because we are together, does not mean that I will compromise on my ideals.”_

_“And what about me, huh?” Harry snapped. “What about my ideals? What about my morals?”_

_“I thought you wanted to make Britain better?” Voldemort asked, snapping his book shut as he finally looked up at Harry. “Has that changed? Whose side are you on?”_

_“I thought there were no sides!” Harry cried, his hand reaching up to tug at his hair anxiously, a habit he’d had since he was a child. “Just you and me. Whatever happened to that? To running away together? What happened to our cottage, Tom?”_

_Voldemort clenched his fists with frustration as he stared at Harry. “You are a naive_ child _if you thought that dream was realistic,” he snapped, angry that Harry dared to bring that up. The dream that Voldemort had secretly been holding onto all these years. Suddenly, he wanted to hurt Harry back. Hit him where it hurts. “And I never should have pursued you in the first place.”_

_Harry sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes going wide at that. Voldemort felt himself freeze for a second in shock. He didn’t mean to say that. But it was too late, and Voldemort watched with regret as Harry’s face closed off._

_“Maybe you’re right,” he says emotionlessly. Voldemort could’ve sworn he felt his heart stop in his chest. “Allow me to leave and fix your mistake. At least then I won’t have to be ‘kidnapped’ every time you want some bloody attention!”_

_Gritting his teeth, he responded, “And was it really so bad, my love? Being with me? You always wanted this, don’t lie to yourself.” he stepped closer, but Harry’s glare stopped him in place. “You can fool yourself all you want, Harry, but you can’t fool me.”_

_“I thought I could make things better!” Harry cried. “I thought that’s what we were trying to do!”_

_“Is that why you never told anyone about us?”_

_Harry blew out a harsh breath of air, his eyes narrowing dangerously. It was a sensitive topic, telling people. Voldemort wanted Harry to tell at least his friends but Harry never did. “Oh my god, this again?! Fuck you, Tom!” he snapped. “According to you there never was an ‘us’. Just you being a selfish arsehole!”_

_Voldemort slammed his fist into the wall, his eyes flaring with rage. He could tolerate a lot of things, but Harry demeaning their relationship was not one of them. “I_ love _you!” Voldemort snarled, his magic lashing out and destroying the window in his anger. “You belong to me! I_ own _you!”_

_Harry just shook his head softly, all of the anger seeming to drain out of him at once. “Love isn’t ownership, Tom,” he whispered softly. Voldemort froze, unsure of how to proceed with the change of tone. “I thought you knew that, but clearly I was wrong.”_

_With that, Harry turned and walked out of his office, closing the door with a loud thud._

_The day after, Harry was gone. His belongings were gone and the next Voldemort heard from him was two weeks later when he received a report saying the Golden Trio was missing from Hogwarts._  
  
  
Voldemort sits on the ground of his destroyed office, his hands clenched into fists around Harry’s wand, ignoring the comforting thrum of magic that emanated off it.“I’m so sorry, my love.” he whispered quietly. 

For a second he could have sworn he heard Harry’s voice. “ _You finally did it. You won. Was it worth it?_ ” Harry’s voice asked. 

Voldemort just bowed his head. “No, it wasn’t.” 

The office was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! New chapter! (I think this might be the longest chapter I've ever written!) Please enjoy some more background into Voldemort and Harry's strange and complicated ~~borderline toxic~~ relationship.  
> \--------------  
> Tom: *being an adorable sociopath who doesn't understand social interactions*  
> Tom: I am the younger version of your parent's murderer, but I love you so run away with me


	3. Chapter 3

His footsteps echoed against the ancient stone walls, the noise amplifying in the silent space until it sounded like thunder. The dungeons were just as cool and dark as he remembered, and Voldemort could feel the nostalgia rolling through him. It was nice in the dungeons, no sign of damage from the battle, unlike the rest of Hogwarts. Since the dungeons were so far beneath the ground, it was the only part of the school that was left intact. Because of this, Voldemort decided to keep the prisoners of war in the dungeons, strong prison cells fitted at the very bottom of the school. 

This was where he was headed. 

There was no one in the dungeons, save for a few guards here and there, and Voldemort made sure to dismiss them the second he arrived, not wanting anyone to listen in on the conversations he was about to have. 

He stepped into the first cell and the grief hit him like a knife to the gut. It was so sudden it took his breath away, and Voldemort took a second to compose himself, thankful that the prisoners were facing the wall and not the door when he entered. They turned around to look at him moments after he’d schooled his expression, no sign of the raging turmoil he felt on his face. 

They were dirty and injured, looking as though they’d just stepped out of the battle minutes earlier rather than a few days ago. The girl’s curly hair was matted with dirt and dried blood, and it hung down against her shoulders limply, framing her bruised and beaten face. The boy had his arm wrapped around her shoulders, his red hair looked brown from the dirt and mud that covered him. They smelled horrible but Voldemort didn’t mention it, after all, they had not bathed since the battle. Probably longer, as they were on the run. 

Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley stared at Voldemort with such pure loathing in their eyes, and despite their haggard appearance, they were able to look threatening. The remains of the Golden Trio were sitting before Voldemort, defenseless, but Voldemort made no move to kill them. 

They needed to die, he knew that, they were the face of the rebellion now that Harry— 

“Tell me where the rest of the Order is hiding,” Voldemort demanded, forcibly stopping the previous thought from continuing inside his head. “You can either tell me or I can torture it out of you.” 

The mudblood’s face crinkled in her rage as she spits at him. “Go to hell! I won’t tell you anything you monster!” 

Voldemort’s crimson eyes flashed with anger as he stalked towards the girl. “One chance,” he snarled, his hands practically trembling with seething rage. “Tell me where the rest of the Order is hiding.” 

“You’re despicable!” Weasley cried. “We won’t betray our friends! Not like you’d know what those are!” 

He did, actually. He didn't before he met Harry, but his love was the one to teach him what friendship meant. Harry is his best friend—Harry _was_ his best friend. The past tense caused Voldemort’s fingers to twitch, and he backed away from the pair in front of him. 

He breathed in deeply, forcing himself to remain calm and in the moment. He could not afford to go into his head in front of them. When he was positive that he wasn’t about to scream and tear the walls down with his magic, Voldemort turned back around to face the prisoners. 

“I’d be careful if I were you,” he said, pointing his finger at Weasley. “Never insult the one who controls whether you live or die.” 

“You think you’re a god,” Granger cut in, her hazel eyes displaying just how much she despised him. “But you’re not. You will be defeated!” 

“And who is going to do that, hmm?” Voldemort asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Everyone you’ve ever wronged!” she snarled. “You killed Harry Potter, and the people will honor him by killing you!” 

This time there was no controlling the grief that coursed through him. It was staggering. _“You killed Harry Potter!”_ It repeated in his head over and over again. _“You killed Harry Potter!”_ It felt like his lungs had collapsed inside his chest, and for a second Voldemort forgot where he was. He struggled to breathe through the agony that washed through his veins, his hands clenched so tightly that they gouged crescent holes into his palm. 

_“You killed Harry Potter!”_

“SHUT UP!” Voldemort screamed, his magic lashing out and slamming the pair against the wall. His magic held them there, trapped against the stone brick as he stalked forward. Their eyes were wide with fear as Voldemort’s fury overtook him. “You shut your mouth or I’ll sew it shut, you filthy mudblood!” 

Her eyes narrowed, the fear leaving her as anger once again replaced it. “It’s true,” she snapped. “Everyone loved Harry and you killed him! You made him into a martyr!” 

“Yeah!” Weasley joined in. “The Wizarding World won’t stand for his death!” 

Voldemort screamed in frustration, his composure long gone as he stared at the pair in front of him. Where had their self-preservation gone? Were they truly so stupid they saw no fault in goading Lord Voldemort? Voldemort slammed their heads into the wall, a loud _crack_ echoing through the cell. “I’ll kill you.” he snarled, his voice tight with fury. “I swear I will torture you to death!” 

“Like you killed Harry?” the mudblood snapped. “Do it! Kill us! You’re only proving my point! You killed Harry, so why not his best friends?” 

_'I don’t know what I’d do without them.'_

Voldemort threw the pair across the room, an enraged yell escaping his lips. They crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings were cut, and Voldemort felt nothing but rage. “TELL ME WHERE THE ORDER IS!” 

“Fuck you!” 

“TELL ME WHERE THE ORDER IS YOU MUDBLOOD!” Voldemort screamed, throwing her against the wall once more. “TELL ME! TELL ME!” To his humiliation, his voice broke halfway through the last demand. 

It was silent in the cell then, the only noise coming from the steady drip of water where the ceiling leaked, and Voldemort’s harsh breaths. Granger’s head was bleeding, blood sluggishly trailing down the left side of her face while Weasley glared at Voldemort, his gaze full of so much hate.

Voldemort startles when he feels something ghost across his cheek. _“Patience Tom, the world won’t bend to your will, you know.”_ a voice whispers in his ear. Voldemort snapped his head to the left so quickly, he knew he’d have whiplash. That was Harry’s voice whispering in his ear just now, so close Voldemort could practically feel it. 

But Harry wasn’t there, and the cell was empty save for the two prisoners and himself. Harry wasn’t standing behind him, whispering advice like he always did because Harry was gone. 

Sucking in a startled breath, Voldemort turned to face the two fallen figures in front of him. Despite the voice being nothing more than a figment of Voldemort’s imagination, he decided to take the advice. After all, Harry always gave the best advice. 

Voldemort transfigured a chair out of a pebble on the ground and sat down in front of the couple. “Tell me about the rebellion,” he said in a calm voice. He could see the confusion written all over the pair’s faces, but Voldemort remained collected. “Answer my questions and nobody will get hurt. Sound fair?” 

“Go fuck yourself.” Weasley snarled. Voldemort raised an eyebrow, breathing in deeply to fight off the urge to throttle the boy until he bled from his eyes and ears. 

“That’s very vulgar of you, Mr. Weasley,” Voldemort said, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms over his chest. “What would your mother say?”

Weasley lunged forward, Granger barely reaching forward in time to stop him. “You leave my mother out of this, you psychopath!” 

“I won’t bring her in,” Voldemort responded. “If you tell me where the Order is hiding.” 

“We don’t know,” Weasley snapped. “We haven’t heard from them since the battle!” 

“You really expect me to believe that?” Voldemort asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yes!” Weasley cried. “We’ve been in this fucking cell ever since! Or did you forget they don’t exactly have mail here?” 

“Tell me where you _think_ the stragglers are hiding.” Voldemort demands, turning to face the mudblood. 

“I won’t.” she said firmly. 

“Then I’ll rip it out of your mind.” Voldemort snapped. Granger merely stuck her chin up in the air. 

“If you were going to do that, you would have done so by now.” she said. “So no, I won’t tell you anything.” 

“Is that what you think?!” Voldemort said, letting out a deep chuckle. He watched with satisfaction as fear flitted over their faces for a second. “I haven’t done that because it would leave you in a vegetative state, not very useful for gathering information. Or a public execution.” 

“Is that what’s going to happen to us?” Weasley asked. “A public execution.” 

“Perhaps,” Voldemort said curtly. “Or you could cut a deal. Give me the information I need to know. We could always work something out.” 

“I’d rather _die_ than betray our cause,” Weasley spat. “Or Harry!” 

Voldemort lost it at the mention of his lover, and he leapt out of his chair, wand pointed at Weasley’s throat. “THAT CAN BE ARRANGED!” he snarled, preparing to cast the killing curse at the boy and end the nuisance. 

_'They’re the only family I have left… They’re_ precious _.'_

Voldemort screamed through his teeth in frustration, sending one last look at the Weasley boy at the end of his wand before he turned around and stormed out of the cell, the door slamming shut behind him and echoing off the walls. He ground his teeth together as he walked briskly through the castle, people stopping what they were doing to bow to him as he passed. 

When he finally reached the Headmaster’s office, he slammed the door shut and cast as many locking charms as he could before he began to pace madly, back and forth. His hands came up to tug at his hair, his fingers twitching with the desire to go back to the dungeons and flay the boy alive. 

He should have killed that boy for what he said! He would’ve killed anyone else for much less, and these were prisoners of war! He was expected to kill them! A public execution would be preferable, as it would cement his hold over Wizarding Britain and show the populations that rebels will not be tolerated. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Voldemort could see his reflection on the full-length mirror behind him. The mirror lined the wall and through it, he could see himself pacing wildly throughout the confined space. He looked raving, the fury that lit up his crimson eyes made him look dangerous, but underneath that, Voldemort could see the bone-deep exhaustion and grief that plagued him. 

Voldemort did not look good in his grief, his usually handsome face was pale and he could easily see the deep purple bruises under his eyes, showing the world just how little sleep he’d been getting. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and his dark brown hair was messy from Voldemort constantly tugging and dragging a hand through it. 

He sighs and tears his gaze away from his pathetic reflection, walking towards the desk to pick up a hideous glass figurine. It was a lion's head and it reminded him of Harry so fiercely that Voldemort couldn’t stand to look at it. He delighted in the sound it made as it shattered to pieces on the floor. 

Voldemort stared at the glass shards that were once a figurine for a second before he turned away, his gaze coming to rest on the mirror once again. A harsh gasp was dragged out of his lungs at the sight of Harry—strong, beautiful, blinding Harry—standing in the mirror looking as though nothing had happened. 

He was wearing the same clothes he was wearing the day before their last argument, before Harry had run away from Voldemort to become a fugitive, trekking through the forest to destroy every piece of him. The fitted robes were a present from him, and they were tailored to fit the planes and curves of Harry’s body perfectly. The deep green brought out Harry’s eyes and made his pale skin look stunning. 

He looked so real and so full of life, Voldemort felt his eyes sting. “ _Harry_ …” he whispered reverently, his hand lightly touching the glass, wishing that he could touch his beloved. 

“Why didn’t you kill him?” the reflection asked. Voldemort shook his head, his other hand coming up to press against the glass as well. 

“No, my love, please don’t do this to me,” he said. “You’re not real.” 

“Why didn’t you kill him, Tom?” 

“I needed information,” Voldemort lied, lightly tracing the reflection’s cheek. His fingers tingled from the cold glass, and he wished more than anything that Harry was there. “Why are you doing this to me? Why do you haunt me?” 

Harry’s reflection shook his head. “Why didn’t you kill him, Tom?”

The sob surprised Voldemort as it ripped its way through his grit teeth. He thought he was done crying over Harry, he needed to get rid of this useless emotion and crush it. But here, faced with the reflection of the dead love of his life, Voldemort could not fight the crushing grief. 

“Please…” he whispered. “Don’t do this to me…” 

“Why didn’t you kill Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger?” 

Voldemort pressed as close as he could to the mirror, his breath fogging the glass. He could see Harry’s reflection stare at him, and it was exactly the way Harry used to stare at him when he wanted answers that Voldemort wouldn’t give. He felt his chest clench with grief. 

“Because they’re all I have left of you.” 

The admission forced another sob to escape him, and Voldemort wrapped his arms around himself to fight against the tidal wave of grief. When would this pain end? When would he wake up feeling numb like he was supposed to? Why was he seeing and hearing Harry when he wasn’t there? Was this his punishment? 

When Voldemort looked up again, Harry was gone, and Voldemort stared back at himself, ugly tears trailing down his cheeks. In the absence of Harry’s image, Voldemort felt gutted once more. To have Harry here only to be ripped away from him once more… 

Perhaps he really was in Hell.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
| _1993_ |  
It happened suddenly, so suddenly that he didn’t know how to react. One moment he was weak, barely managing to hang on to the tiny snake he’d been possessing ever since Quirrell had been killed at the hands of that blasted Potter boy, and the next he felt so powerful, the snake dying instantly under the sudden power influx. 

The pain that had become the norm ever since he became a wraith was lessened, so much so, that Voldemort wasn’t sure what to do with it. The snake, lying dead on the ground, had held his soul for a good few months. Now that it was dead, however, Voldemort needed to find a new body to possess. 

He floated around the forest for a while before he came across a squirrel. Not his usual choice, but he saw no other options nearby. However, the second he possessed the tiny rodent, it too dropped dead. 

Perhaps he was too powerful to possess small animals? But how could this have happened? Voldemort flew through the forest, looking for anything to possess, uncomfortable with being a wraith for longer than necessary. But when everything died mere seconds after he took over, Voldemort was forced to leave the forest and search for a host in the nearby muggle town. 

He managed to snag an unsuspecting muggle on the outskirts of town, and it took mere seconds for Voldemort to gain control. He could feel the muggle fighting, but the attempts were so weak, Voldemort paid him no mind. 

Voldemort’s powerful magical core would burn the muggle out in a few months, but for now, Voldemort had a host that he could work with. He took a second to familiarize himself with the muggle’s body before he set off towards town. 

Voldemort must have gotten lucky with his choice, as no one commented on the muggle walking around. It was a small town, so the muggle must have been some kind of a loner, and he doesn’t encounter a single problem as he walks to the muggle’s home. 

Once inside, Voldemort sets up several muggle repelling charms as well as a Fidelius, just to be safe, before he reaches out through his link to call Nagini to him. She arrives moments later with a loud pop, and Voldemort bends down to brush his fingers against his Horcrux’s smooth scales. 

_$Hello, my dear,$_ he hisses, watching fondly as the snake butts her head against Voldemort’s leg. _$I’m back. I believe you have something for me?$_

_$Master’s wand!$_ Nagini hissed, before she began to regurgitate Voldemort’s wand. He vanished the mess with a wave of his hand before he lifted his yew wand and began to twirl it around, the pleasantly familiar thrums of magic shooting shivers down his spine. 

_$Thank you, my dear.$_ Voldemort said, sitting down on the armchair to rest. Despite his newfound strength, he still weakened easily. The muggle he was possessing did little to help, seeing as they weren’t built to hold a magical core, much less one as powerful as his. 

_$Master has returned?$_ Nagini asked, slithering over to him and resting her head at Voldemort’s feet. 

_$Somewhat,$_ he said, lighting a fire in the fireplace. Nagini hissed in pleasure as the warmth began to fill the house. _$I do not know how yet…$_

_$Master will find out,$_ Nagini responded contently. _$Master is smart.$_

“Thank you, my dear,” Voldemort said, forgoing the parseltongue. He knew Nagini wouldn’t understand what he just said, but the muggle’s mouth was not built to speak the language of the snakes, and it was especially draining to perform magic and force a magical language out of the body. “I believe I will, as well. But for now… I need to rest.” 

Nagini had coiled around herself by now, her head resting on the tops of Voldemort’s shoes while the tip of her tail rested on the warm hearth. Voldemort closed his eyes, relaxing into the worn, but slightly comfortable fabric of the armchair, and allowed himself to rest.

* * *

— _dark hair glinting off the sunlight. A joyful laugh filling the silence and a comforting warmth, one that he hadn’t felt before, heating his insides and making him feel so wonderful_ —

* * *

Voldemort awoke suddenly, a harsh breath escaping his lips as he jumped up. Nagini let out a displeased hiss as her resting place was disturbed, and Voldemort stumbled to his feet in a rare show of clumsiness. 

What was that? What was the strange dream he just had? He could still feel the phantom warmth in his chest from the dream, a feeling of completeness and wholeness that was utterly foreign to him. 

_$Master?$_ Nagini hissed, lifting her head in confusion. 

_$It’s nothing.$_ Voldemort said quickly, turning away from his confused familiar in favor of going to the kitchen to make some tea. Voldemort transfigured one of the muggle’s mugs into something nicer and more fitting of Voldemort’s stature before he heated up some tea. 

As the kettle whistled, causing Voldemort to cancel the heating charm and pour the water into the newly transfigured cup, Voldemort frowned in thought. The dream was very vibrant, something that Voldemort was not used to. His dreams, if he had any at all, were dull and forgettable, usually sitting in the reserves of his subconscious by the time he awoke. 

There was a boy in this dream, dark black hair. He didn’t know anyone with dark black hair of that height, so where did the dream come from? Perhaps it was someone the muggle knew, and while Voldemort was sleeping, the muggle was able to broadcast a memory while Voldemort’s defenses were down. 

“Yes,” Voldemort mused to himself. “That must be it.” 

With the newest mystery solved, it was time to return to the more pressing matter at hand. How did he become so powerful in a matter of seconds? Where did this power come from? 

The strength seemed to be his own, and he felt no shift in his magical signature either. Voldemort didn’t think it was a ritual of some sort, as no one had tried to find him since his power returned yesterday. Besides, in order to perform a successful ritual, he needed to be close to the ritual site, and he had been in the middle of a forest yesterday. 

He found himself sitting once more in the chair as he thought, the heat from the tea warming his insides as he thought. Voldemort ended up falling asleep once more, exhausted from the strain of his possession.

* * *

— _stay! All he wanted was for the boy to stay with him! Stay forever! Never leave him! He could not stand the idea of the boy leaving his side, sharing his beautiful smile and musical laughter and wonderful magic with someone other than him. It filled him with impossible rage_ —

* * *

It was the same boy as his last dream, but Voldemort was unprepared for the overwhelming feeling of obsession and longing and desire to keep and protect. It was irrational, and it was so strong that it transferred over to Voldemort when he woke, his hand instantly itching forward as though he could yank the boy from his dreams and hold him tight. 

Voldemort, once he had regained his bearings, looked around the muggle’s house in shock. His magic had somehow lashed out in his sleep and destroyed the furniture, a small circle around Voldemort’s chair, Nagini, and the fireplace the only place cleared from the damage. 

How mortifying! Voldemort had not lost control over his magic in decades! How could a strange dream cause him to lose his composure so drastically? 

“Who are you?” Voldemort whispered, the image of the dark-hair boy, features blurred, flashing in his mind. “What do you mean to me?” 

Voldemort knew now that the boy was not a friend of the muggle he was inhabiting, as Voldemort could clearly feel a magical core from the boy in his dream. But where had he seen him before? Voldemort could safely say he’d never met a boy with dark hair whose magic made his sing. Not once. 

_$Master?$_ Nagini hissed, startling Voldemort out of his head. _$You smell stronger.$_

_$Stronger?$_

_$You smell more like yourself,$_ Nagini answered, slithering closer to him. _$Your magic smells healthier.$_

“Healthier…?” Voldemort frowned, his face pinching up with confusion. What did she mean by that? Sure, he wasn’t exactly the epitome of health, especially considering the muggle he was currently possessing, but he was never unhealthy. 

It wasn’t until the next dream that he realized what she meant.

* * *

— _a flash of red hair lying limply on the marble ground. A laugh, so unlike the joyful laughter he loved. His dark hair was covered in dirt as he ran. Even then he was perfect, and he was_ mine, mine, mine _. The boy’s magic was perfect for him_ —

* * *

— _he was in pain. He hurt because the boy was dying. He was losing him! He was never going to see the boy’s beautiful smile. Never see his hair shining in the sunlight. Never hear his musical laughter. Never feel his perfect magic brushing up against his. It was agony_ —

* * *

— _laughing. He couldn’t stop laughing. His boy was so adorable. Did he really think he could get rid of him like this? Oh, no. No, he would be back. Once he was reunited with himself, he would come back for him. He would come back for him and the precious boy with his magnificent magic would belong to him_ —

* * *

Voldemort snapped his eyes open in shock, understanding finally clicking. He started chuckling, and he could hear Nagini shift in confusion at the sudden noise. It all made sense now. He had been reunited with a Horcrux, and judging from his strength, he would assume it to be one of his earlier ones. 

The boy from his dreams, Voldemort didn’t know him, but his _Horcrux_ did, and from the looks of it, his Horcrux got rather attached as well. It definitely explained the irrational obsession Voldemort now felt for the nameless, faceless boy. 

_$Master?$_ Nagini calls, and Voldemort realizes he’s been staring at the same spot for a few minutes now, lost in thought.

“Wow,” Voldemort whispered to himself. “My Horcrux was in way over his head…” That much was certainly true, the waves of obsession clouding the boy was strong, and it took a while for Voldemort to sort through it. 

_$Master?$_ Nagini asked again, and this time Voldemort smiled and looked down at his precious snake. 

_$I have discovered why I am more powerful,$_ he said, and Nagini hissed in excitement as she coiled closer to him. _$My Horcrux was returned to me.$_

_$Like me?$_

_$Yes, my dear,$_ Voldemort said with a nod, reaching down to trail his fingers over the smooth green scales on her head. _$The dreams I’ve been having, they are the memories of my Horcrux.$_

It was odd, of course, that his Horcrux would have memories. He had always assumed his Horcruxes would be asleep, but based on the dreams, his Horcrux was awake and sentient. The boy, the object of his Horcrux’s obsession, must know what happened to his Horcrux. 

Voldemort needed to find the boy, he needed answers. Once he found the boy and got the answers he sought, perhaps he’d keep him. After all, his Horcrux wanted to keep him, and his Horcrux was a part of him. Voldemort always knew what he wanted, and he wanted the boy for his beautiful smile and joyful laugh and utterly addicting magic then Voldemort would have him. 

_$Master? What will you do now?$_ Nagini asked. Voldemort grinned. 

_$First, I will regain my body. It will require a brilliant plan and that damn Potter boy. Once I have my body back and that brat is dead,$_ Voldemort said, standing up to call his wand to him. Which follower could he trust to perform his task? _$I need to get into Azkaban and free my followers and win the war once and for all.$_

_$And the boy, Master?$_

Voldemort’s crimson eyes gleamed with deadly intention. _$I will find the boy and keep him, of course,$_ he said. _$After all, my Horcrux made a promise…$_

_'I will find you and take you because you will always, always belong to me.'_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Voldemort wakes up in his sleeping chamber, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. His hands instinctively reached out, searching for Harry’s sleeping warmth. Voldemort never used to sleep before, but after several pleas from Harry, Voldemort began sleeping with Harry. Voldemort found that sleeping in the same bed as Harry was comforting, and whenever Voldemort woke up in the middle of the night—which happened often—all Voldemort needed to fall back asleep was his precious lover in his arms. 

Voldemort’s hand was met with cold bedsheets. 

Voldemort frowned, still lethargic from sleep, and sat up on one elbow, lazily searching Harry’s curled up figure. Voldemort thought it was adorable how Harry would curl into himself as he slept, making himself as tiny as possible. He would pull Harry to his chest and he would slowly uncurl so that he could cuddle into Voldemort’s warmth every time. 

“Harry…?” Voldemort asked softly, wondering if perhaps Harry got up to walk around in the middle of the night, as he does that sometimes. But when he looked around his room he realized that he wasn’t in the master bedroom of Riddle Manor, but the Headmaster’s quarters at Hogwarts and Harry wasn’t here because Harry was—

Oh. 

The realization struck him so violently, he doubled over, struggling to inhale. How many more times would this happen to him? How many times would Voldemort forget that his precious wasn’t here anymore, the knowledge stealing the breath from his lungs? 

The room didn’t smell like him, the scent you’d smell right before it rained, broom cleaner and ink, and Voldemort felt the loss like a physical limb. He shuddered and pulled the pillow next to him, the pillow that would have been Harry’s, and hugged it to his chest. It was a poor substitute, but it was all he had. 

He had dreamed of a memory, back when he first learnt of Harry, and it was so vivid. He’d have told Harry if he were here, he always enjoyed making fun of Voldemort’s obliviousness back then, but Harry wasn’t here and the room was suddenly unbearably silent. Voldemort had grown used to hearing Harry’s snores as he slept, and without them, it was stifling. 

“I had another dream, my love,” Voldemort whispered, breaking the silence before he could go insane. “I was talking to Nagini about you. Back before I knew it was you, of course.” 

Nagini. Another loss to the war. The Longbottom boy had beheaded her while Voldemort was in the forest with Harry, something he didn’t know about until hours after the battle when he called for her only to discover the link they shared was broken. 

Longbottom paid for that mistake with his screams.

Voldemort was truly alone now, wasn’t he? Harry was gone and so was Nagini and all he had left was his worthless followers and a country to run. The desire to change Britain for the better, get rid of the stigma behind dark magic, and create equality between the muggle-borns and purebloods—all of that had died with his love. 

“Don’t you remember how well you complimented me?” Voldemort asked to the silence of his room. What would his followers think of him now? Their great leader clutching a pillow to his chest like a lifeline and speaking to no one. “Your magic and mine were perfect together. It was like coming home…” 

There was a lot of lore behind singing magic, something a young Tom Riddle had read about years before he became Lord Voldemort. The idea that another person could match you so well, your magic would recognize each other, and together they would sing. People believed that you had a soulmate and the way you could tell if you found yours was to see if your magic would sing together, more powerful than when you were apart. 

If soulmates truly existed, Harry was his. 

Harry’s magic was so similar to his own, sometimes Voldemort would mistake it for Nagini. Nagini, being one of Voldemort’s Horcrux, had a magical signature that mirrored Voldemort’s, as she held a piece of him inside her. Whenever he touched her, he’d feel the tell-tale warmth of his soul reaching out to meet each other. 

Harry was the same. When they kissed, Voldemort would feel complete in a way he never imagined. He loved kissing Harry, and Harry loved it just as much. He’d confessed one night that it felt like some emptiness inside him was being filled when they touched. 

It was just like… 

Voldemort sat up with a gasp, his crimson eyes wide with shock as the final piece of knowledge clicked together in his head. Harry’s magic complemented Voldemort’s perfectly. Touching Harry was like coming home, a wonderful wholeness that Voldemort had never experienced before. Harry’s magic made his sing. 

“Harry was my Horcrux…” Voldemort whispered, his hands clenching around the sheets. “Harry had a piece of my soul inside him. Harry was my _Horcrux_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort going through all 5 stages of grief at once... He needs sum therapy...  
> \---------------  
> Voldemort: ahh yes, kill the potter boy  
> Also Voldemort: find the dark-haired boy and keep him forever and ever


	4. Chapter 4

| _1995_ |  
Harry trembled against the harsh, unforgiving stone statue. His body ached and he could feel exhaustion and dizziness creeping in from the blood loss and adrenaline crash, yet none of that mattered now. He needed to run, needed to get out of here before Wormtail could finish whatever he was doing. Harry glared at the rat best he could, but his anger was slowly melting to grief and hopelessness the longer he remained tied to the grave. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see the fallen figure in yellow lying motionless on the ground. Harry blinked back the sudden tears and wave of grief at the sight. Cedric was dead—murdered by the disgusting rat that had taken him hostage—but the fault lay on Harry’s shoulders and Harry’s alone. If Harry hadn’t insisted on bringing Cedric with him then Cedric wouldn’t have been killed in his place. Cedric was a good person, kind and gentle and honest, he didn’t deserve this fate. 

If Harry made it out of this mess alive he would do everything he could to honor Cedric’s memory and atone for what he did. 

Harry’s attention was brought back to Wormtail as the rat let out a bloodcurdling scream before his hand fell into the bubbling cauldron. Harry’s stomach rolled with nausea and he forced himself to swallow back the bile rising in the back of his throat. As Wormtail whimpered, blood leaking profusely from his stump, he lifted a cloth-covered bundle and tossed it into the cauldron. 

Harry watched with horror as the cauldron boiled red for a moment before something began to move inside the liquid. His eyes were wide with horror as a _person_ climbed out of the black cauldron. The person was male—as was made obvious by his nudity before Harry looked away—tall and muscular. His skin was fair but the green steam radiating off the water gave his skin a sickly glow. His body was surprisingly sculpted and toned, his dark brown hair looking far too put-together for a person who just crawled out of a boiling cauldron. Altogether, the man was incredibly handsome. If Harry didn’t know the strange man had just emerged from a cauldron, he would’ve thought him to be some kind of model with his adonis like features. But even still, there was something about this man that put Harry on edge, an age-old instinct telling him to run far away, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. 

It wasn’t until the man opened his eyes, his _blood-red eyes_ , did Harry understand just how dangerous the man in front of him was. 

Harry watched as the man was robed by a whimpering Wormtail, favoring his left arm stump, and stood tall. The man exuded a very commanding presence, and the overwhelming magical aura made Harry want to hunch in on himself until he disappeared from view. Why was the signature so familiar? Harry could swear he’d felt this magic before… 

While Harry was pondering over who the mysterious man could be, Voldemort was standing in front of his worthless servant, debating on the merits of killing the blubbering fool. Pettigrew was whining at his bare feet, his bleeding stump raised towards Voldemort’s wand arm. 

“Master, _please_ ,” he whimpered, tears rolling down his fat cheeks. Voldemort sneered in disgust as the rat-like man continued to push his bleeding arm towards him. “Master… Master.” 

“My wand, Wormtail.” Voldemort said curtly, his words bordering on a hiss. Behind him, the Potter boy stiffened, but Voldemort would deal with the pest in a moment. 

“Oh, Master! Thank you, Master, thank you!” Wormtail cried, using his good hand to reach into his robes and pull out a familiar wand. 

Voldemort fought back a scoff at the hideous display of weakness in front of him. How pitiful. He waved his wand, fashioning a metal hand to replace the one Wormtail had lost. Despite the man’s obvious flaws, Lord Voldemort was a merciful Lord, and he always favored loyalty. Wormtail wept when the metal hand attached to his stump, a mild pain reliever following shortly thereafter. “I am a merciful Lord,” Voldemort cooed, a dangerous smirk resting on his face. “Never forget that.” 

“Never, My Lord! Never,” Wormtail sobbed. “Thank you, My Lord! Thank you!” 

With that taken care of, Voldemort turned around to face the bane of his existence. The Potter boy had grown since the last time he’d seen him. Gone was the tiny, scraggly First-Year, and in his place was an enraged, slightly muscular teen, emerald eyes wide with confusion and terror, but also determination. It was the very expression the boy had worn when he fought Quirrell all those years ago. Perhaps he had not changed much after all.

The Potter boy struggles against his binds as Voldemort steps towards him, his hand curling around his wand as he prepares to cast the killing curse. Not really as dramatic as he would’ve liked, but Voldemort has already been foiled by the boy far too many times and he isn’t willing to risk it. When he is but a few feet away from the boy, however, he freezes in place, his crimson eyes widening with shock. 

It… It _couldn’t_ be… 

But there was no doubt in his mind. The magic that the Potter boy exuded was identical to the boy from his dreams. Voldemort felt his own magic lash out and curl against the boy’s in response, the wonderful feeling of wholeness and perfection washing over him. The Potter boy stiffens in shock, and Voldemort’s eyes wander over his frozen figure. 

He certainly looked like the boy from his memories; dark black hair and green eyes. Voldemort had never seen the boy’s face in his dreams but looking at the Potter boy now, feeling his magic, he could easily see him replacing the boy of his dreams. The boy that smiled at him, emerald eyes wide. The blurry face that Voldemort could never see finally coming into focus. 

Harry Potter. 

_—I will find you,” his Horcrux promised, his crimson gaze boring holes into Harry’s tear-filled eyes. “I will find you and take you because you will always, always belong to me!”—_

All thoughts of killing the boy are wiped from his mind instantly, and his shocked expression slowly melted into a victorious smirk. How Fate seemed to favor Lord Voldemort, to bestow the very person he was searching for directly into his hands. He could feel his magic burrowing deeper into the boy’s—no, _Harry’s_ , desperately trying to feel more of the wondrous wholeness. 

Voldemort stepped forward, ignoring Harry’s renewed struggles to get away from him, and hesitantly brushed his finger across Harry’s cheek. He was rewarded with a tingling sensation that traveled throughout his entire arm, a beautiful heat warming his very insides. Voldemort smiled, entranced. 

“I can touch you now.” he whispered, leaning in closer, cupping Harry’s cheek with his hand, his thumb brushing his cheekbone. Harry’s eyes were wide as he stared at Voldemort, leaning as far back as the statue would allow. 

Voldemort could feel his possessive nature rise up inside him, and he wanted nothing more than to take Harry far away from here where no one would touch him like this again. A place where his magic and accompanying wholeness would be touched by him, and him only. 

Harry flinched violently when Voldemort raised his wand, but Voldemort merely shushed him before turning slightly to cast a stunner at Wormtail, feeling no remorse as the portly man fell to the ground in a painful heap. With their newfound privacy, Voldemort raised his other hand to cup his face, both thumbs brushing a soothing pattern on the boy’s cheeks. 

“Harry Potter,” he laughed, delighting in the way the boy cringed. “I swore I’d find you again, and here we are.” He watched with glee as Harry’s confused face slowly morphed to horror, realization bleeding across his eyes as he once again struggled against his binds. Voldemort only chuckled, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Harry’s. “I told you you’d always belong to me.” 

Voldemort reared back when he felt a blinding pain against his head. In his distraction at the wonderful warmth Harry gave him, Harry had slammed his head into Voldemort’s. Voldemort had stumbled back, his hand reaching up to touch the bump on his forehead. Harry was panting heavily, his eyes filled with determination, a thin trail of blood flowing down his face from where the impact had occurred. 

“I… will _never_ … belong to you.” he snarled through grit teeth. 

Voldemort felt a sudden lurch of desire for the teen, his eyes wide as he took in Harry’s strong stance. Harry truly was perfect, wasn’t he? Until this moment, Voldemort had not considered pursuing the boy for anything other than his magic. Sure his Horcrux believed he was in love with the boy, but Voldemort had never known love. Only obsession. 

But seeing him like this, eyes filled with hate and pride, Voldemort could understand his Horcrux’s feelings. 

“Oh darling,” Voldemort purred. “You have no idea how wrong you are.” 

Harry let out a grunt, and Voldemort’s eyes widened when Harry suddenly lurched forward, breaking the bonds holding him captive. It was an impressive feat, of course, those bonds were made of magic. However, they were made by Wormtail so they could only be so powerful. Even still, Voldemort could not deny the strength his boy possessed. 

Voldemort watched as Harry sprinted towards the cup, and Voldemort quickly threw a stunner at the boy, causing him to throw himself to the ground to dodge. “Stay a little longer, won’t you?” Voldemort cooed, stepping forward. “I’ve missed you.” 

“You’re crazy!” Harry cried, picking himself up off the ground and running again. “What’s wrong with you?! I’m a kid!” 

“You definitely don’t look like a child.” Voldemort responded, and he smirked when Harry’s face flushed a beautiful shade of red when he saw the way Voldemort’s eyes had trailed him up and down. And he didn’t, of course. Harry was actually quite handsome with his striking, aristocratic features and toned build. 

“That’s… That’s not—” Harry stuttered, his hand reaching for his wand. “You’re just like him! Stop being creepy, oh my god!” 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “Like who?” 

“Tom!” Harry cried. “You’re just like Tom! Seriously, what is your deal? Why are you so obsessed with me? You don’t even know me! You tried to _kill me_! What’s the matter with you?!” 

“I _am_ Tom, dear,” Voldemort said with a click of his tongue. “Everything he knew about you, I know. Everything he felt about you, I feel. And really, petty insults? I thought you were more mature than that.” 

“I’m not!” Harry cried. “I’m a kid! I’m fourteen, you creep!” 

“No matter,” Voldemort said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I won’t attempt a physical relationship with you until you're older, I assure you. I have no interest in sleeping with someone so young.” 

“Great!” Harry said, his eyebrows furrowed with confusion as he stared at Voldemort. He was still crouched in a fighting position, but at least he wasn’t trying to run. “Great, so that means you’ll let me go, right? You don’t have an interest in me so I can go, yeah?” 

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Voldemort scoffed. “I said I have no interest in _having sex_ with you, not that I had no interest in you. I’m afraid, dearest, you’ll be coming with me.” 

“No!” Harry shouted, abandoning his fighting crouch in favor of diving towards the cup. Voldemort summoned the portkey, taking care not to touch it, and set it down on the grass directly in between himself and Harry. 

“Fight me for it,” Voldemort said, his hand curling around his comforting yew wand. “Fight me for the right to leave. If you win, I’ll let you go. You can even take the body with you. But if I win, you come home with me, no fighting.” 

Harry clenched his jaw at the mention of his dead friend, but Voldemort knew Harry would agree simply because he had no choice. He could either fight to leave or let Voldemort take him. Either way, though, Voldemort was taking his boy back to Riddle Manor with him tonight. 

“Fine,” Harry snapped, lowering himself into another crouch. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Haven’t you heard of ‘Stranger Danger’?” 

Voldemort chuckled. “That really only applies to strangers, darling.” 

“Yeah, and obsessive, homicidal psychopaths who murdered your parents and wants to fuck a fourteen-year-old like a creep.” Harry retorted. Voldemort scowled at Harry’s crass language. 

“I already told you I do not wish to _fuck you_ , as you’ve so eloquently stated,” Voldemort replied stiffly. “I wish to court you. Those are two very different things.” 

“You—HEY!” Harry was cut off mid-sentence when Voldemort threw a stunner at him, growing tired of the boy’s arguments. “YOU DIDN’T TELL ME WE WERE STARTING ALREADY!” 

“You need to pay more attention to your surroundings,” Voldemort said, darting forward. “Come on Harry, aren’t you going to fight me?” 

“Fuck! Shit, fuck, fuckity shit balls!” Harry cursed, running away from Voldemort’s sprinting figure, dodging any and all spells Voldemort threw at him. Voldemort chuckled at the boy’s cursing, and while it was amusing at the moment, it was something Voldemort would have to work on when they returned home. Someone of Harry’s stature should not be cursing. 

Voldemort wasn’t sure how long they’d been fighting for—’fighting’ was a very loose term for what they were doing. A more accurate description would be; Voldemort was fighting and Harry was running. Voldemort could see Harry growing tired of the fight, and taking advantage of his exhaustion, threw a stunner at his chest. 

Harry turned at the last second, seeing that he wouldn’t be able to dodge the spell, hastily fired an _expelliarmus_. Voldemort watched with awe as their spells collided and suddenly the entire graveyard was alight with a bright yellow. Ghostly figures appeared in the light, and Voldemort could just barely hear Harry’s hushed whisper of, “Mom? Dad?” over the wailing forms of his last victims. 

The light show lasts for a few more seconds before it’s abruptly cut off. Voldemort blinks a few times to reorient himself, and in those few precious seconds he’s wasted, Harry manages to summon the portkey and disappear, leaving Voldemort standing alone in the graveyard. 

He stares at the place where Harry had been standing for a long time before he begins to laugh. His anger at losing the fight and therefore losing Harry was quickly drowned out by the pride he felt for his boy. Harry was a truly magnificent creature and he would be Voldemort’s. 

“You can run, Harry Potter,” he said to the empty plot. “But I will always find you.” 

With one last chuckle, Voldemort wakes Wormtail and calls his followers to him, eager to share the good news of his resurrection.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He paced the length of the musty cell, his footsteps echoing against the dark stone. From their position huddled against the wall, he could see them glaring at him with a mixture of fear and loathing. They were clearly tense, anxious to know what exactly he was doing there. He’d been pacing the length of their cell for almost twenty minutes now, but he had said nothing. 

Voldemort wasn’t sure what he should say. He had no idea how to proceed from here. Harry was Horcrux, and wasn’t that a shock, but he didn’t understand anything at all. That in of itself was a frustration as Lord Voldemort did not like _not_ knowing things. He needed to know how long Harry knew, needed to know why Harry hadn’t said anything. The only people who could give him the answers he sought were sitting in front of him, yet Voldemort had no idea how to ask. 

“ _Come now Tom_ ,” Voldemort stiffened when he heard Harry’s voice. His hands clenched into fists at his side but otherwise, he did not react. Voldemort knew it wasn’t real. His Harry was dead, but for some reason, he was haunting him. “ _Just use your words. I know you know how_.” 

Voldemort let out a controlled breath of air before he decided to follow Harry’s advice. Harry always did give the best advice… Voldemort summoned a chair before sitting down in front of the two prisoners, ignoring their slight flinch. 

“Tell me what you know about the Horcruxes.” Voldemort said, finally breaking the tense silence between them. 

Whatever they had been expecting him to say, it clearly wasn’t that, as Voldemort had the pleasure of watching genuine surprise flit over their faces before the hateful glare returned. They were silent, and Voldemort forced himself to remain calm. They couldn’t give him answers if he broke their minds. 

Finally, the mudblood spoke. “We don’t know anything about Horcruxes.” 

Voldemort raised his eyebrow at the blatant lie. “Did you really attempt to lie to Lord Voldemort?” he asked, a mixture of anger and amusement coloring his tone. “I am fully aware of why you weren’t at Hogwarts this year, as well as the objects you hunted on your quest. Answer me honestly and maybe I won’t relieve you of your fingers.” 

The mudblood had blanched at the threat of dismemberment, but she did not argue that Voldemort couldn’t do that. She had come to the correct conclusion that she did not need all functioning limbs in order to answer questions. “T-They… They’re soul containers,” she answered softly. “T-They can m-make a person immortal.” 

“I do not need a definition of Horcruxes,” Voldemort snapped, delighting in the girl’s flinch. “I know what Horcruxes are. I am asking you to tell me where you learned this information. Why you learned this information? What happened while you were on your quest? How much did Har—” Voldemort swallowed, his fingers spasming on his knee. “How much did _he_ know about Horcruxes? What did he tell you?” 

“Why do you care?” Weasley snapped, drawing Voldemort’s attention away from the mudblood. “All of your Horcruxes are gone! We destroyed them because that’s what we were told to do! What does it matter to you now?” 

Voldemort’s thin layer of patience snapped at the blunt response, and Voldemort whipped out his wand and fired a silent _cruciatus_ at the blood-traitor. His screams echoed against the cold prison cell before Voldemort released the curse, watching with satisfaction as the man slumped against the wall, trembling. “Mind your tone, _boy_ ,” Voldemort hissed. “Or I won’t be so lenient next time.” 

“Dumbledore told Harry about them,” the mudblood cried. Voldemort’s chest tightened at the sound of his dead lover’s name, but he forced himself to remain indifferent. He turned his gaze to face the mudblood’s desperate expression. “Harry told us about them a little while later. W-We went with him on his quest to find and destroy your Horcruxes.” 

A small part of his chest panged with hurt at the thought of his love hunting down parts of himself to destroy. Voldemort knew his relationship with Harry wasn’t typical, and he was fully aware of how complicated it was. But Voldemort never doubted his love for Harry, just as he knew Harry loved him too. Voldemort knew what Harry was doing on his quest, of course, but it hadn’t really hit him until just now. To think that their final argument had pushed Harry so far as to actively try to _kill_ him… Voldemort blew out a breath of harsh air. 

“He was the one to suggest you coming to destroy my Horcruxes?” Voldemort inquired, making sure to keep his warring emotions off his face. 

“He d-didn’t want us to come,” the mudblood said. “But w-we wouldn’t let him go alone. H-He could’ve been killed—” she stopped, and Voldemort watched the grief roll through her eyes as she realized what she said. Voldemort felt a similar wave of grief, but he refused to show it. She cleared her throat before she continued. “We didn’t want him to b-be alone.”

“How noble,” Voldemort sneered, anger and jealousy overcoming his grief. How could his emotions change so quickly like that? He hated feeling so strange, feeling each contradictory emotion to its extreme. “And I imagine he was eager to destroy my Horcruxes.” he added bitterly. 

“He… He was sad,” Weasley said quietly, making Voldemort snap his gaze towards him. “He never liked killing.” 

Voldemort didn’t know how to respond to that information. Should he be happy that Harry didn’t want to destroy his Horcruxes? Or should he be sad because the love Harry felt for him wasn’t enough to stop him from destroying his Horcruxes anyway? 

“How did you know what we were doing?” the mudblood asked suddenly, interrupting Voldemort’s thoughts. “No one knew we were hunting Horcruxes. It was confidential. How did…?” 

“I’m not surprised he didn’t tell you,” Voldemort said, watching as their faces drew up in confusion. “I found Harry while you were on your quest. We had a very brief conversation before he managed to get away.” 

Yes, Voldemort had managed to catch his lover mid-way through January. It had been quite the struggle to catch him, and when he had finally managed to corner him in an alley of a muggle town he’d bought provisions from, Harry looked horrible. Voldemort scowled as he recalled Harry’s gaunt and starved face. Voldemort had tried to convince his lover to return with him, give up the pointless search and come home to him. 

Voldemort could see how tempted he was to join him, but in the end, Harry had run from him. Again. Somehow that one stung worse than the first time. Voldemort had chased after him for a good while but Harry evaded him and Voldemort was forced to return home empty-handed. 

The next time he saw his lover was in that damned forest. 

The mudblood seemed horrified by Voldemort’s words. “Y-You found Harry?” 

“For a brief moment,” Voldemort said with a nod. “I was unable to capture him and get the information I needed which is why I am here. Now, I am going to ask you a question and you are going to answer honestly or I will kill your blood-traitor. Do you understand?” 

The mudblood paled drastically, her eyes widening for a moment before they glanced over at Weasley’s trembling formed. She bit her lip for a moment before she nodded. “I-I’ll tell y-you the truth.” she swore. Voldemort smirked. 

“Good,” he said. He watched them for a few moments, gathering his thoughts as he tried to figure out how best to ask the question that had been bouncing around his head since he woke up this morning. Finally, he leaned forward. “Did you know that Harry was my Horcrux?” 

The mudblood didn’t even have to speak, the horrified gasps that escaped her and Weasley’s mouths answering for her. She raised a trembling hand to cover her mouth, her hazel eyes filled with horror and tears. “H-Harry was…?” 

“So you didn’t know,” Voldemort said, leaning back in his chair. “Interesting. What would you have done, I wonder? Had you known before… Would you have killed him like you did my other Horcruxes?” 

“NO!” Granger cried, a hoarse sob following her shout a few seconds later. “No, we… we would never have hurt him!” 

“Merlin's saggy tit!” Weasely cursed, slamming a fist against the wall. “That’s why he went… That’s why he let you…” his face gained a greenish hue as he continued. “That’s why he let you—”

Voldemort’s blood froze in his chest. All this time he’d thought Harry’s death was accidental. Voldemort had a clear plan when he called Harry to that clearing, one that the pair had talked about before in the privacy of Voldemort’s study. He had assumed Harry had made a mistake and it had resulted in his death. 

But if Harry had known that he was a Horcrux… If he had let that spell hit him… 

“You think… You think he let me kill him because he was a Horcrux?” Voldemort asked carefully. The feeling that washed over him at the very thought made Voldemort want to scream and murder everything in sight before sinking into a ball so he could cry. The idea that Harry had let himself die—had walked into his _death_ because he was Voldemort’s Horcrux… 

“Harry would’ve done whatever it took to get rid of you and save the Wizarding World,” the mudblood said, her voice coming out strong and firm. “Harry died to save the world from you. He’s a hero.” 

Voldemort snarled, his hand reaching towards his wand, the desire to torture the mudblood for her words was almost overwhelming. Before he could, though, the blood-traitor decided to speak. 

“I’d kill myself even if the world _wasn’t_ at stake,” he spit. “I mean, who’d want a piece of a _monster_ stuck inside them?”

Blink. One. Two. Three. 

Voldemort was frozen in place, his eyes wide as they stared at the blood-traitor. He had a feeling his face was no longer composed into his cool, disinterest mask, but Voldemort couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

Blink. One. Two. Three. 

What did he say? A monster? Harry had been Voldemort’s Horcrux. A piece of Voldemort’s soul had grown up inside his lover. Their love was strong and true, if a bit messy at times. How could Voldemort be a monster when he cradled Harry so carefully after a nightmare? How could he be a monster if he’d kissed each of his closed eyelids with such overwhelming affection? How could he be a monster when Harry had cried out his name in pleasure, their love being conveyed through their bodies? How could he be a monster if a pure, gentle soul like Harry had chosen him?

Blink. One. Two. Three. 

But Harry didn’t choose him, did he? After all, Harry was gone. 

Blink. One. Two. Three. 

Harry wasn’t here because he chose to _die_ rather than stay with Voldemort—

Voldemort stood suddenly, the chair falling to the ground with a loud clatter. He did not look back at the prisoners as he fled, choosing instead to force himself to regain his composure. How dare that blood-traitor say those words! How dare those words affect him so deeply!

Voldemort had never experienced disassociation before, but he figured this must be it. He was standing in the Headmaster’s office now, unsure of how he managed to get from the dungeons so quickly. His magic was lashing out in a mixture of overwhelming emotions. The feelings of _angerhurtdesirelovepainlossgriefwantrage_ making him dizzy with their power. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Voldemort could see his reflection in the mirror. It was the mirror that he’d seen Harry’s reflection the other day, but now he saw nothing but himself. He locked eyes with his reflection, the bright crimson standing out against his pale face. 

_“Who’d want a piece of a_ monster _stuck inside them?”_

Those damn red eyes. 

With a screech of pure rage, Voldemort grabbed a book and hurled it into the mirror, shattering the glass. Shards exploded across the office, nicking him and covering his hair and clothes. He breathed heavily as he stared at the glass shards covering the floor. 

Instead of getting rid of the eyes, thousands more stare back at him, taunting him for his mistake.  
. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Voldemort is dealing with the death of Harry about as well as you'd think. Please leave a kudos and a comment if you liked this chapter!!! :)  
> \-------------------  
> Harry: What the hell is _courting??_


	5. Chapter 5

Voldemort awoke to a stinging sensation in his foot and a head full of cotton. It took a few minutes to convince himself to open his eyes, only to immediately regret it when the light blinded him. He scrunched his eyes closed, fighting off the massive headache that threatened to overtake him, and counted to three in his head before he opened his eyes again. He blinked a few times to adjust to the light before he sat up, his hand coming up to massage his temples. 

He’s laying on the ground in his office, shards of glass littering the floor around him. He must have fallen asleep here, but his memory of the night before was fuzzy. He felt drained, his eyes red and puffy with dried tear tracks staining his cheeks. He felt more than drained, actually. He felt completely, and utterly numb. 

Voldemort slowly rose to his feet, only to stop when he felt the stinging in his foot worsen. He looked down to see a large piece of glass embedded in his heel. He stared at it for a moment, his eyes empty with consideration. Voldemort walked over to his chair, ignoring the pain as the glass was pushed further into his foot before he sat down and began pulling it out. 

The glass shard was fairly big, with jagged edges lined in red. He just stared at it, watching with morbid curiosity as his blood leaked out of the wound, stained the glass, before dripping into a puddle on the floor. The red was startling, standing out boldly against the clear glass and paleness of his skin. 

With one quick motion, Voldemort ripped the glass out of his foot and tossed it to the floor. The wound began to gush out blood without the glass to staunch it, and Voldemort did nothing but watch as his blood poured out of him. He felt strangely detached from the world as he watched his lifeblood leave him. A few months earlier and Voldemort would never have done something like this. Losing blood could lead to death, and Voldemort refused to do anything that would push him closer to it. 

Now, however, Voldemort felt nothing as his blood puddled on the floor. The blood reminded him that he was alive, even if it didn’t really feel like he was, and he couldn’t find it in himself to fix it. Voldemort knew he was acting crazy now, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. How strange it must be for him to act so out of character. 

“ _Come on, Tom_ ,” he could hear Harry’s whisper against the back of his ear. “ _What you’re doing is dangerous. Stop it. Heal yourself_.” 

Voldemort smiled at the voice. He knew it wasn’t real, but it certainly reminded him of the little fights they used to get into together. They were always fighting about this and that, their relationship was rather tense and messy. Their petty arguments always ended the same way, however. Voldemort or Harry would either win or stomp off, depending on the topic, and after they had time to cool down, they would make up with fantastic sex and then agree to never broach the topic again. 

Probably not the healthiest problem solving, but it seemed to do the trick just fine. 

He could recall one such argument that ended with Harry not speaking to him or returning his carefully hidden owls for almost two weeks before Voldemort was able to corner him again to discuss it. Their argument, like all of their arguments, was petty and ridiculous. Harry was being over-emotional and making a big deal out of nothing while Voldemort had nothing but defend his lover’s honor. 

The fight, funnily enough, had started because Voldemort hadn’t healed a wound on his hand. 

_“Seriously, you make all these comments about how you’re the great Lord Voldemort, but you can’t even heal a paper cut?” Harry scoffed, crossing his arms as he looked pointedly at the large slash through Voldemort’s palm._

_“This was a result of a sword,” Voldemort said, rolling his eyes at Harry’s melodrama. “Not a paper cut. And I can heal it, darling, I just haven’t gotten around to it.”_

_“What? A sword? How did you get slashed by a sword, first of all,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. “And second of all, you don’t have the time to heal your sword slashes palm, but you have the time to stalk and kidnap me from Hogsmeade and take me back to your manor? Where’s the logic in that?!”_

_Voldemort had technically kidnapped Harry, yes, but he hated it whenever Harry referred to Voldemort’s attempts to spend time with him as ‘kidnapping’. Voldemort, after not seeing each other for nearly a month, had decided to take advantage of the Hogsmeade trip to see his almost-lover._

_They weren’t quite together yet, but Voldemort had high hopes that he could convince Harry of the benefits of their relationship soon. He had been taking Harry out on dates, even if Harry refused to acknowledge them as such, every chance he got and had begun exchanging letters when he was unable to be with him in person._

_Harry seemed to be opening up to him, albeit slowly. Why, when he cornered Harry in the alley behind Honeydukes and apparated them to Riddle Manor, Harry only let out a loud groan and made a few sarcastic comments, whereas a few months earlier when he did this, Harry had screamed and struggled to get away from him._

_Their relationship was certainly growing, and Voldemort hoped that with a few more months of patience and kindness—as well as more assurances that this isn’t a trick and he’d never hurt Harry—Voldemort might be able to fully pursue a romantic relationship with Harry._

_“There was a rebellion in my ranks earlier this morning where an idiot decided to try and behead me while I dueled someone else,” Voldemort said with a wave of his hand, ignoring Harry’s gobsmacked face. “Obviously I caught the sword with my hand and disarmed him.”_

_“Obviously.” Harry parroted, his eyes wide. He then frowned, his eyebrows drawing in tightly, creating a small divot in his forehead. “Did you kill them?”_

_Voldemort leveled him with a deadpan stare. “I know you hate killing and all that, dearest, but I couldn’t let them live after such an offense,” he said, sinking into the armchair by his bed. Harry stood by the door of his bedroom, a small frown marring his features. “Please don’t begrudge me this.”_

_Harry sighed, his emerald eyes darting away from Voldemort’s figure for a moment before he stepped forward. Voldemort remained still in his chair, internally grinning as Harry moved towards him without any prompting. He stopped a few feet away from the chair before he summoned a House-Elf._

_“Can you bring me some bandages and a wet rag?” he asked the elf politely. Voldemort raised an eyebrow at the request but said nothing as the House-Elf nodded enthusiastically and disappeared to fulfill Harry’s request._

_Despite the House-Elves belonging to him, they seemed to love Harry and tolerate Voldemort. They were always excited when Voldemort brought Harry to the manor, stumbling over themselves to answer him. He supposed it was because Harry was so kind to them. Really, Harry had this ability to enchant anyone without even realizing he did it._

_When the House-Elf came back with the requested objects, Harry thanked the House-Elf before moving to kneel in between Voldemort’s spread legs. Voldemort’s breath hitched in the back of his throat at the sight, his eyes widening as he stared at Harry’s kneeling figure. His face was slightly flushed, but his eyes were narrowed, refusing to meet Voldemort’s heated gaze and he gently took Voldemort’s injured hand._

_“Stop looking at me like that.” Harry muttered harshly, gently cleaning the dried blood off Voldemort’s wound with the wet rag._

_“Like what?” Voldemort asked, his words breathy. His gaze lingered on the way Harry’s tongue darted out to lick his lips before he responded._

_“Like a creep who wants to fuck a fifteen-year-old,” Harry said, making Voldemort smile at the familiar words. Whenever Voldemort’s gaze lingered too long on Harry, the flushing teen would tell him to stop acting like a creep before reminding Voldemort of his age. “It’s weird. Stop it.”_

_“My apologies, dear Harry,” Voldemort said, not sounding repentant in the slightest. “But it is rather hard when I’m looking at such a pretty picture. Why are you doing that?”_

_Harry just glared at his hand, setting the now bloody rag on the floor in favor of picking up the bandages. “You could get an infection if you don’t treat it properly,” Harry said in lieu of answering. He began to gently wrap Voldemort’s hand in the bandages. “Honestly, Tom. You want to take over the world but you can’t even treat your wounds.”_

_“You know I have magic, right?” Voldemort asked, ignoring the use of his first name. Usually, the sound of his muggle name filled him with rage, but somehow it sounded better coming from Harry’s lips. “Why are you using such muggle methods?”_

_“I only know muggle methods,” Harry said, tying the bandages. “I haven’t learned healing magic yet. I’m only fifteen, remember?”_

_“Yes, I am fully aware of your age, Harry,” Voldemort said, leaning forward. “But you’ll be sixteen soon enough.”_

_Voldemort delighted in the way Harry’s breath hitched in the back of his throat, a delightful blush spreading across his fair cheeks. “S-So?” he countered, refusing to meet his gaze. “You’re still decades older than me. Creep.”_

_Voldemort just smirked, seeing the insult for what it really was. Harry wasn’t trying to insult Voldemort so much as save face and remind himself of who Voldemort was. It meant that Voldemort was succeeding in his attempts to woo Harry Potter. “If I’m such a creep,” he said, reaching forward to cup Harry’s jaw and force Harry to meet his gaze. “Why are you healing me? After all, you claim I’m your captor. Are you starting to fall for me, Harry Potter?”_

_Harry’s eyes were wide, reminding Voldemort of a shining emerald in the sunlight. His face was a bright red, and Voldemort longed to see just how far down the blush could spread. He stared at Voldemort for a tense second, his mouth opened slightly as he struggled to formulate a response._

_Finally, the heated moment was broken when Harry let out a scoff, forcing his head to turn and break Voldemort’s grip. “In your dreams.” he countered, but his tone wasn’t as strong as it usually was when he denied his affections for Voldemort._

_Voldemort just smiled. “Always.”_

_Harry stiffened, his face darkening even more under his beautiful blush. He didn’t respond to Voldemort’s answer, choosing instead to busy himself with cleaning up the bandages and rag from earlier. His hands were trembling slightly as he did this, which is what drew Voldemort’s attention to the wound that he would have otherwise missed._

_Voldemort lunged forward, a surge of rage overwhelming his senses as he gripped Harry’s hand tightly. Harry let out a surprised cry at the sudden movement but any attempts to remove himself from Voldemort’s grip was stopped by Voldemort’s rage-filled eyes. “What is_ this _?” he demanded, raising Harry’s hand to get a better view._

_There, carved into the back of his Harry’s hand, were the words_ I must not tell lies _. The words were angry red and raised, and Voldemort could practically feel the heat radiating off of them. It looked agonizing, and Voldemort was going to destroy whoever did this to him._

_“It’s fine,” Harry said, tugging at his hand, but Voldemort refused to let go. “It’s nothing. Let go, Tom.”_

_“Who did this?” Voldemort continued, ignoring Harry’s response. “Tell me, Harry. I need to know.”_

_“No, you don’t!” Harry cried. “Seriously, let go of my hand, Tom!”_

_“I will let go when you tell me how you got this,” Voldemort said. “This looks fresh.”_

_“How do I know you won’t kill whoever did this?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrow. Voldemort clenched his jaw. Harry truly was a clever boy, and usually, Voldemort was quite proud of this. However, at this moment Voldemort wished Harry was a little more oblivious._

_“You don’t,” Voldemort said through grit teeth. “Let me take care of this, Harry. Tell me who did this.”_

_“Only if you promise not to kill them.” Harry said firmly. Voldemort hissed with rage but slowly nodded, internally coming up with other ways to punish whoever did this without ending their life. “It was Umbridge. She makes me write lines in detention with a quill that uses my blood.”_

_“A blood quill?” Voldemort repeated, practically trembling with rage. “Umbridge? Delores Umbridge?”_

_“You promised not to kill her, Tom!” Harry cried, finally managing to yank his hand free from Voldemort’s hold. The second Harry’s hand left his grip, Voldemort lunged forward, clasping his hand around Harry’s arm before tugging the teen into his lap. “Tom!” Harry gasped. “Let go—”_

_“You’re right, dearest,” Voldemort said, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist. Voldemort had discovered early on that Harry enjoyed positive touch, something he wasn’t used to getting from his abusive relatives. Harry was tense, but Voldemort merely nuzzled the back of Harry’s neck before Harry melted into the hug. “I did promise.”_

_“You can’t kill her, Tom, or I will be very cross with you.” Harry said, letting his head rest against Voldemort’s shoulder._

_“I won’t kill her, Harry.” Voldemort said, smirking into Harry’s shoulder._

_Of course, he made no promises that he wouldn’t punish her._  
  
  
As Voldemort stared at his foot, the blood sluggishly pouring out, he recalled the wonderfully just punishment he’d given the pink toad. Of course, after he punished her for hurting Voldemort’s beloved, Harry had refused to talk to him for two weeks. 

Apparently kidnapping Umbridge and forcing her to use the blood quill on herself, carving the words, ‘ _I am a child abuser_ ’ onto her forehead was not something Harry condoned. Nevertheless, Voldemort was satisfied with his revenge and had then gone forward with his plans to woo Harry. 

Voldemort sighed, reality hitting him in the gut. He’d succeeded in wooing Harry, but he still lost him in the end. Now Harry was gone and Voldemort was still here, struggling to go on without him. His comforting magic and beautiful smile were gone, but Voldemort had hope.

Harry was his Horcrux, and he’d never had a human Horcrux before. Such a thing was unprecedented, and thus, there was a possibility that Voldemort could bring him back! Maybe. It was all theoretical, though, and loathe as he was to admit it, Voldemort wasn’t exactly in the best place to figure it out on his own. 

The stinging in his foot proved to be an example, as Voldemort quickly healed the wound, unsure of how long he’d been sitting there watching himself bleed. Obviously, Voldemort could not function without Harry, but he couldn’t do it on his own—something he thought he’d never say in his life because Lord Voldemort was capable of doing anything. And so, for the first time in his life, Voldemort was about to ask for help. 

He stood, his face set in a determined glare, the numbness from earlier finally wearing off as his desperation and determination—with the tiniest bit of hope—set in. He quickly vanished the mess in his destroyed office, the glass shards reconnecting to form the mirror in the wall. He allowed himself a quick glance in his reflection, meeting the gaze of a weary, but determined man, before he nodded.

It was time to visit his prisoners.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
| _1995_ |  
Harry stood in the grocery market, his arm weighed down from the basket full of items for the Durselys when he saw him. Harry froze in place, his eyes widening as he stared at the man from his nightmares casually leaning against the aisle. When he realized he had Harry’s attention he grinned, pushing off the aisle to walk over to him. 

Harry’s heart began to race as he stumbled backward, looking for an exit. He cursed when he realized he was completely boxed in, a large family on the other end of the aisle blocking his escape. In his distraction, Voldemort had enough time to catch up to Harry and throw his arm around his shoulders, casually pulling him closer to him. 

“Hello darling,” he said with a smirk, ignoring Harry’s terrified gaze. “Long time no see.” 

Harry’s eyes were wide as he stared at the man from only a month and a half earlier. “Not long enough,” he snapped, ignoring the way Voldemort’s eyes brightened at the retort. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“Really Harry, must you cuss?” Voldemort asked, not-so-subtly leading Harry away from the family that was now eyeing the pair strangely. Harry turned his head to flash them a silent plea for help, only for Voldemort to forcibly turn his head away from them before he had the chance to. “It’s inappropriate from someone of your standard.” 

“Someone of my standard…?” Harry asks before he shakes his head, deciding that he’d rather not know what Voldemort meant by that. “Why are you here, Tom?” 

Voldemort grimaced at the name, and despite having no other reaction to it, Harry took it as a win. “We’re going on an adventure.” he said, guiding Harry towards the exit. 

“I have to make dinner, Tom,” Harry said, trying his best to remain calm even though he was pretty sure Voldemort could feel Harry’s heart race through his grin on Harry’s shoulder. “Can’t our little adventure wait?” 

Voldemort didn’t even spare him a glance. “No, it can’t.” 

“Tom…” Harry began to pull away, his hands trembling. This was it. Voldemort was going to kidnap him and kill him and no one would ever know what happened to him because there was no way the Dursleys would report him missing. 

“Don’t struggle and don’t make a scene.” Voldemort hissed, his grip on Harry’s shoulder tightening. “I’ll kill anyone who comes over to help you, so don’t act so suspicious.” 

He clearly knew which buttons to push, as Harry stopped struggling immediately. There was no way Harry would allow anyone to be killed because of him. Voldemort smirked at Harry’s compliance and carefully led him to the front of the store, forcing Harry to set his basket of unpurchased items down lest they make a scene. 

Harry followed Voldemort as he led the pair out of the grocery market, through the street to behind a building before Voldemort yanked Harry closer to him, wrapping his arms tight around Harry’s waist before they apparated away. 

Harry twisted out Voldemort’s grip when they arrived at their destination, nausea flipping Harry’s stomach around. Voldemort allowed Harry a few seconds to compose himself before he impatiently tugged on Harry’s wrist once more. Harry, now safely back in Voldemort’s grip, looked around to see where he was.

He couldn’t recognize anything around him. He was in a magical area, the wizard fashion plain to see, but none of the signs were in English. He narrowed his eyes at Voldemort who looked too smug for Harry’s liking. 

“Where are we?” he demanded. “Where did you take me?” 

“Welcome to Germany, dear Harry,” Voldemort said, a wide smile on his face. Harry’s eyes widened as they darted about the magical village. “Come on, let’s get something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely _starved_.” 

Harry said nothing as Voldemort dragged him into an unfamiliar restaurant, speaking with the waiter in German—startling Harry as he did so because Harry had never heard the language before, and had no idea the crazy kidnapper spoke it—before the pair were led to a private sitting room. 

The restaurant was beautiful, the main dining hall was centered around an indoor waterfall with windows all around to let the light in. Harry had been incredibly impressed at the sight, something that made Voldemort smirk when he saw it, but the pair were led upstairs to the private rooms. 

Harry’s heart started to race when he was placed in a small room with a round table and two chairs with his parent’s murderer. The room was a deep navy colored with one window that showed the center of the village outside. Voldemort said something to the waiter before the waiter nodded and left the room, the doors closing shut behind him. 

“Come, sit,” Voldemort said, gesturing to the chair on his left. Harry eyed it suspiciously, his gaze darting between Voldemort’s smug face and the door behind him. “Aren’t you hungry?” 

“No.” Harry said firmly just as his stomach growled. He flushed with mortification as Voldemort chuckled. Curse the Dursleys and their punishment methods! 

“Your stomach disagrees,” Voldemort said, still smiling as he took a seat across the table from him. “Honestly Harry, I’m not going to do anything to you. I just want to share a meal with you.” 

Harry weighed his options. He could either sit in the chair and dine with Voldemort, hopefully figure out a way to convince the man not to kill him or he could make a run for it now, find a way to escape the man in a country he’s never been in and ask for help in a language he didn’t know. In the end, the decision wasn’t hard to make. 

Harry said nothing as he sank into the plush chair. He sat there in silence for a very long time, pointedly ignoring Voldemort’s unrelenting gaze as he stared at the table. A few seconds later there was a loud pop and food appeared on the table. 

Voldemort began to eat, his eyes not leaving Harry, making Harry increasingly uncomfortable. As Harry filled his plate with some type of chicken and rice, he took the time to ponder his next words. He needed to know what was happening, and why Voldemort had taken him here. 

Based on what happened in the graveyard—Harry shifted uneasily in his chair at the memory—Voldemort didn’t seem to want him dead as he did before, but that didn’t mean Harry was safe with the man. Even still, there was something off about the whole situation.

Finally, Harry spoke, “What’s going on?” 

“We’re eating, Harry,” Voldemort said, his eyebrow raised daintily. “What did you think we were doing?” 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Harry accused, finally looking up from his plate of food to meet Voldemort’s eyes. The man appeared delighted. “Why did you take me? Why aren’t you, I don’t know, torturing me somewhere or something?” 

“Do you want that?” Voldemort had the audacity to look confused. 

“What? No! Of course not!” Harry cried. 

“Then I suppose you’ll have to be satisfied with our meal,” Voldemort said, lifting his fork to eat more of the food. Harry just sighed and continued to eat the chicken and rice. It was surprisingly really good, but then again, everything was delicious to Harry’s starved body. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there in silence before Voldemort spoke again. “This is the calmest kidnapping I’ve ever been a part of.” he said. 

“Well, I know you’re likely going to explain your plan later in a real villainesque monologue style, so I’ll wait to escape then.” Harry said without a beat, taking a drink of the most delicious water he’d ever tasted. 

“Fair enough,” Voldemort allowed with a small grin. “However your element of surprise is gone now, so I’ll be quite prepared when the time comes.” 

“Maybe that’s just what I want you to think,” Harry shot back before he blinked, instantly realizing that he was holding an amicable banter with his kidnapper. Instantly he narrowed his eyes and returned his gaze to his food before he muttered under his breath, “Seriously. Why am I here?” 

Voldemort hummed. “I want to get to know you even better.” 

“You don’t know me,” Harry said, frowning with confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Come now, dearest, you know that’s not true,” Voldemort said with a smirk. “You call me Tom, after all. I have all the same memories as my diary, which you befriended, and we are one and the same. By default, you know me and I know you.” 

“How does that even work?” Harry asked. “I destroyed Tom. He’s gone.” 

Voldemort just smiled at him the way one would smile at a puppy chasing its own tail. “You can’t destroy Tom,” he said, shaking his head. “He had several charms and protections in place. What you did was destroy his vessel, forcing him to return to me.” 

“I… I don’t understand…” Harry said, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that all of his memories are mine,” Voldemort said, leaning forward. Harry’s eyes widened at the manic, possessive look in the man’s eyes. “All of his _feelings_ are mine.” 

Harry isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say to that, his eyes wide with shock as he stares at the crazy man in front of him. He truly did remind him of Tom—he had Tom’s handsome features, only they were older and more refined. He had Tom’s mannerisms and magical signature. But most of all, he had Tom’s obsessive eyes, full of greed and longing whenever they landed on Harry. He never noticed it when he was younger, but now that he was older, every time he remembered his time spent with Tom the diary, he could easily recognize the memory’s possessive desire to _own_ in his eyes. 

Finally, after a long moment of tense silence, Harry cleared his throat and looked away from Voldemort’s intense gaze. “That’s creepy.” 

Voldemort threw his head back and laughed, the noise bouncing around the silent room. “Your humor always amuses me, love,” he said, taking a sip of his water. “This was a fun date.” 

Woah. Wait. What? “Um, what?” Harry coughed, looking at the man in front of him with disbelief. “This isn’t a date. This is a _kidnapping_.” 

“Of course, of course,” Voldemort said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Whatever you say, dear Harry.” 

The rest of their meal was completed in stilted conversation, usually consisting of Voldemort attempting to draw Harry into small talk and Harry firing off small sarcastic remarks to make him stop. Instead of having the desired effect, however, Voldemort always seemed delighted by Harry’s sass, firing back with equal sarcasm with glee. 

When the meal ended, Harry tensed, unsure of what was going to happen next. Voldemort merely smiled at him, holding out his hand for Harry to take. Harry eyed it suspiciously before he decided he didn’t really have any other choice and took it hesitantly. 

Voldemort grinned and tugged Harry into his chest just as he apparated, making Harry’s stomach rebel. When he was certain he wasn’t about to vomit all the luxurious food he just ate, Harry looked around to see he was standing in the backyard of number four, Privet Drive. 

“Safe and sound, just like I promised.” Voldemort said with a smug grin. 

“You didn’t promise,” Harry argued, attempting to remove himself from Voldemort’s hold. Voldemort merely grinned and tightened his grip around Harry’s waist. “You just kidnapped me like a creeper. Seriously, you’re the textbook definition of ‘creepy old man’. There’s a high school a few blocks from here, you know, don’t want to be caught here, you predator.” 

Voldemort just laughed, his boisterous chuckles making Harry’s face flush. “You really are funny, Harry,” he said, his crimson eyes sparkling with mirth. The sunlight was shining directly on his face, lighting up his eyes, reminding Harry of bright rubies. “You must forgive me for the abduction—”

“I really don't.” 

“—but I desperately wanted to spend time with you,” Voldemort continued, ignoring Harry’s remark. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react to my invitation, though, so I resorted to other methods to ensure your compliance. I’ll be more gentle next time.” 

Harry’s eyebrows raised. “Next time? Is this going to become a thing? Kidnap me anytime you’re feeling lonely?” 

“Do you want it to become a thing?” Voldemort asked, smirking as he leaned forward. Harry flushed. “I don’t mind. It can be our inside joke. All couples have them.” 

“We are _not_ a couple!” Harry cried, his face a bright red. 

“Not yet,” Voldemort said, pulling Harry close to him and burying his face in Harry’s curls. “But I did promise to court you. I intend to fulfill that promise.” 

“You! I… What does that even—”

“Hmm… Your hair smells nice.” Voldemort remarked, chuckling when Harry’s stutters increased. Finally, Harry pushed away from Voldemort, crossing his arms over his chest defensibly, his face a bright red tomato as he glared at Voldemort. 

“You’re so creepy!” he cried. “What’s the matter with you?!” 

Voldemort just grinned before his gaze traveled to the house behind them. “Do they still mistreat you?” he asked, his voice suddenly tense, so sign of the mirth from earlier. 

Harry froze. “Y-You remember that?” 

“I remember everything, Harry,” Voldemort reminded him. He took out his wand, ignoring Harry's sudden flinch at the sight, and cast a nonverbal protection charm and a few wards. “There. They shouldn’t hurt you anymore. If they do, I’ll be alerted and I’ll protect you.” 

“You’ll _what_?” 

“I wish I could do more, dearest,” Voldemort continued with a rueful sigh. “But the Order is watching you, and I can’t risk it.” 

“What the hell is an _Order_?!” Harry cried, making Voldemort’s face brighten with a smile. Voldemort chuckled as he stared at Harry with a fond grin, making Harry’s face redden even more. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? Stop it! Creep—” 

Harry was cut off, an embarrassing squeak escaping his mouth as Voldemort pulled him forward, placing a chaste kiss on his lips. It was short and gentle, Voldemort’s lips were soft as they pushed against Harry’s, a brief warm feeling filling his stomach before Voldemort pulled back. 

“I’ll kidnap you next time I’m feeling lonely.” Voldemort said with a smirk, his tongue darting out to taste his lips, causing Harry’s breath to hitch in the back of his throat. 

Harry stood frozen in place long after Voldemort had apparated away, his face practically radiating heat, as he stared at the empty grass where Voldemort had stood. Slowly, hands trembling, he touched his lips, still tingling from the kiss. 

“That… That was my first kiss…” he whispered to no one. Suddenly Harry shook his head, his eyebrows drawing together as he let out a huff of frustration. He turned around and began to march back inside the house, muttering under his breath. “Stupid Dark Lords. Stupid creeper. Pervert! Taking my first kiss! How dare he! ‘ _I’ll kidnap you next time you’re feeling lonely_ ’, I’ll show you lonely! I’ll kick his handsome arse if he even tries! I’ll scream ‘Stranger Danger’ so loud…”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Voldemort stops outside the prisoner’s cell, just as he had been doing for the past few days. He stared at the door for a long time before he forced himself to open the door, watching with smug satisfaction as the prisoners jumped at the noise. They turned to face him with loathing in their eyes, but Voldemort said nothing as he summoned the chair he’d been using quite a bit lately. 

He took a deep breath, remembering to curb his temper before he spoke, “I need you to tell me everything that happened while you were on your Horcrux hunt.” 

“We already said we wouldn’t tell you anything!” the mudblood snarled, her eyes filled with animalistic hatred. “Just kill us already!” 

“Not until you tell me what I need to know.” Voldemort said, impressed with his ability to keep calm. 

“What does it even matter?” the blood-traitor demanded. “They’re all gone now! Who cares?” 

“I care, Weasley,” Voldemort said, his finger twitching towards his wand. “You should too. It’s the only thing keeping you alive.” 

“Then I guess you should get on with killing us,” Weasley spat. “‘Cause, you’re not getting anything!”

Voldemort had his patience, but he found it was quite thin these days without Harry there to keep him calm and serve as his anchor. Voldemort snarled, lunging forward to wrap his fingers around Weasley’s throat and squeeze dangerously. Weasley let out a loud choking noise as Voldemort cut off his air. “That can be arranged.” he said in a bored tone, but his eyes betrayed his murderous intent. 

“STOP! STOP IT!” the mudblood cried, a few tears leaking down her face, leaving trails of clean skin through the dirt and grime. “What do you need to know?! Please!” 

Voldemort let go of Weasley’s throat, taking grim satisfaction in the way the blood traitor sunk to the ground, his hand coming up to clutch his chest as he coughed. He sat back in his chair, crossing his leg before he addressed the mudblood’s words. 

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said. “Now. I need to know what you know of Horcruxes. More specifically, human Horcruxes.” 

Granger stiffened. “I don’t… It’s never been documented before. I-I didn’t even know it was possible—”

“And yet it is,” Voldemort said, his frustration mounting. “As I had one. I intend to have one again.” 

Both prisoners froze, their eyes widening with horror as they stared at him. Voldemort cursed himself for the slip. He had no intention of telling the duo what he was going to do with this information, but now that it was out, perhaps Voldemort could twist it to his benefit. 

“W-What?” Granger asked, her hands trembling, causing the manacles to clatter. “What did you say?” 

“Tell me what you know about human Horcruxes,” Voldemort repeated. “Anything. Even theoretical.” 

“Why… Why do you need to know?” she asked, her voice shaky. “What will you do with that information?” 

This was it. This was the deciding factor on whether or not he’d get the help he needed to bring Harry back. Sure, he could force them to help him, but past experience proved that forcing people to do what you want under threat of their lives didn’t end well. (Case in point: Draco Malfoy) He didn’t want to be honest with them, didn’t want their scrutiny. But he knew that he needed their help, or in the very least, the mudblood’s. Harry had often told him of Granger’s intellect, and if anyone could figure out a way to bring someone back from the dead through the use of a Horcrux, it would be Lord Voldemort and Hermione Granger. 

But he needed them to _want_ to help him. In order to do that, he needed to reveal the nature of Harry and his relationship, a topic that had been the center of several arguments between the couple before everything went wrong. 

Voldemort breathed in deeply, swallowing his pride. “I need this information to bring Harry back,” he said, ignoring the prisoner’s shocked gasps. “I can’t… I can’t _do_ this without him. I need Harry… He… He’s my _world_.” 

They were silent for a very long time, their eyes wide as they stared at Voldemort like he had a second head. Finally, after enough time had passed that Voldemort was beginning to wonder if they’d even heard him, Granger spoke. 

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she asked. 

“I get asked that a lot,” Voldemort said tensely. “You’re going to have to elaborate.” 

“You were the guy Harry was hiding from, weren’t you?” she continued. Voldemort’s heart stuttered in his chest. “He told us… He told us it was a bad breakup and he needed to complete that mission for Dumbledore but… But I knew he ran from Hogwarts to get away from that person because it hurt to be around him.” 

Voldemort wasn’t breathing. He sat there in stunned silence as he stared at Granger, hanging off of her every word. Harry had… Harry had told them about their relationship? A bad breakup? Did he really think that fight they had was a breakup? Was that why he ran? 

“He said that he couldn’t be with the man he loved because of the war,” she continued, ignoring Voldemort’s sharp inhale. “That was you, wasn’t it?” 

Voldemort said nothing and that was when Weasley spoke up, clearly done with listening to Granger’s ramblings. “Don’t be ridiculous!” he cried. “There’s no way Harry and You-Know-Who were—” 

“Yes.” Voldemort interrupted him, knowing he wouldn’t have the patience to hear Weasley doubt their relationship. There was nothing Voldemort hated more than people doubting the love he had for Harry Potter. “Harry and I… We were… I…” he trailed off, mortified that he couldn’t find the words to describe their relationship. 

Granger stared at him for another long moment before she nodded. “We’ll help you bring him back.” she said firmly, ignoring Weasley’s sudden shout of, “What the hell ‘Mione?!” and lifted her head proud as she met Voldemort’s gaze head-on. “I loathe you more than anything in this world but I love Harry and Harry…” her voice broke. “Harry, for some reason, Merlin only knows, loves you.” 

Voldemort suddenly found himself fighting the urge to cry. “I don’t deserve him.” he whispered in a rare moment of candor. 

“No, you don’t,” Granger agreed. “But I want Harry back as much as you do.” 

“‘Mione you can’t be serious?!” Weasley cried. “This is insane! That’s the bloody _Dark Lord_!”

“I’ll help you but you have to swear an oath to never hurt him,” Granger continued. “And you need to seriously rethink your whole, ‘world domination’ plan.” 

“Harry was going to help me make everything better,” Voldemort said, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling so he wouldn’t have to see their faces. “We were going to create a better world where everyone was equal and separate from the muggles.” 

“Do your followers know that?” Weasley muttered. 

“I swear to never intentionally harm Harry James Potter on the condition that Hermione Jean Granger and Ronald Billius Weasley assist me in bringing him back from the dead,” Voldemort swore, choosing not to address Weasley’s angry mutters of how insane the whole thing was. There was a bright flash of light as Voldemort’s oath was completed. “Now then. Tell me what you know.” 

“I need to do some research,” Granger said, holding her chin as she thought. “It will take some time.” 

“Then why are you wasting it?” Voldemort demanded. He wandlessly removed their chains. “You have an hour to clean yourselves and look presentable. The library is currently warded against everyone but me and you two, so once you no longer resemble homeless people, go there and begin your work.” 

With that, Voldemort spun on his heel and left the prison cell, not wanting to be in there for another second. The entire exchange between the prisoners—helpers, now, his mind supplied—left him utterly drained. He had never been one for the whole ‘feelings’ thing, Harry being the only exception, and talking with Granger about Harry was pushing the limit. 

He needed space to compose himself and return to his Dark Lord facade. He wandered aimlessly around the halls of Hogwarts, taking note of the repairs that were currently being done as he walked. While his mind strived to ignore his feelings, his subconscious refused. Without his permission, his feet had taken him to the forbidden Astronomy Tower. 

He stopped at the entrance, staring at the warded stairs for a few seconds before he walked through, his feet echoing off the stone steps loudly. He climbed the astronomy tower silently, keeping his gaze locked ahead of him until he arrived at the top. He breathed in deeply at the sight that greeted him. 

Harry Potter laid in a comfortable bed, his features peaceful and calm, no sign of the weary heaviness that plagued him from the war. If not for the glass coffin that surrounded him, one might assume he was asleep. Voldemort didn’t know what possessed him to do such a thing, but the thought of burying his lover six feet under made his stomach clench. Perhaps it was a subconscious wish that Harry would wake up as his princess counterpart did in the muggle fairytale. 

Before the desire was nothing but an unfounded wish, but now… 

“Hello, Harry dearest. I’ve missed you,” Voldemort said softly, resting his hand on the glass above his lover’s cheek. “We’re going to bring you back. Just wait a little longer…” 

Voldemort’s face softened as he brushed the glass in a gentle caress, pretending it was Harry’s cheek. 

“Just wait a little longer…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment and a kudos if you enjoyed this chapter!! Yay! We're getting into the plot! Seriously... Voldemort needs some lessons on how to properly date someone...  
> \----------------  
> Ron: Wait, hold on  
> Ron: Are we just going to ignore the fact that THE DARK LORD AND HARRY POTTER ARE SHAGGING?!?!  
> Ron: *makes random angry noises as he gestures at Voldemort*  
> Ron: The Dark Lord and Harry Potter _shagging_!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Harry doesn’t know where he is. One moment he was looking at Tom’s horrified face as the spell came hurtling towards him, and the next moment he’s opening his eyes to see a blank void of white nothingness as far as the eye can see. He’s sitting on what he thinks is the ground, his reflection staring back at him, making it look like the ground of this place was just one huge mirror. It’s quiet in this place, Harry muses, as he looks around the void. 

The quiet is peaceful. Here, Harry doesn’t feel fear or pain—none of the emotions and feelings that he’s grown used to—only peace and tranquility. He holds his legs to his chest and rests his head on his knees and breathes in deeply, enjoying the feeling of his lungs inflating and deflating. 

Harry doesn’t know where he is, but wherever it is, he never wants to leave. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he feels the presence, it could have been days or a few seconds, but when he feels the tranquil warmth gets a little chillier, Harry opens his eyes and looks to the left. There, sitting next to him is a shadowy figure clothed in the stars. The sudden color blinds him, as his eyes have grown used to the blank white, and Harry squints his eyes to focus on the ever-changing galaxy on the figure’s cloak. It looks like the figure has taken the universe itself and wrapped it into a cloth, and when Harry looks closer, he can see the stars and galaxies moving. 

Harry trails his eyes from the cloak to the figure wearing it, his eyes widening when he sees a boy, aged ten or eleven, with pitch-black hair that falls to his shoulders and skin as pale as the nothingness that surrounds him. In the space where the boy’s eyes should be, sit two empty sockets glowing with a green light. This, combined with his pale color and tiny figure, makes the boy look skeletal and sickly. 

Harry sits in silence for a little while longer, moving his eyes away from the figure in the stars to look at the endless void. The figure says nothing, choosing, instead, to sit next to Harry in silence. Harry can feel the goosebumps on his arms raise the longer they sit there in silence, the chill steadily getting colder. 

It’s Harry who breaks the silence with a quiet, “Who are you?” 

The figure finally turns to meet Harry’s inquisitive gaze, the face hauntingly expressionless. “I am Death.” he says, and Harry shivers at the child-like voice that comes out of the otherworldly figure. 

“Am I dead?” Harry asks, even though he already knows the answer. He must be dead if he’s sitting here talking to Death. Harry remembered the Killing Curse hit him, he could remember the way Tom’s eyes widened with horror as he reached out to try and stop it, but it was too late. 

Death hums. “You are not quite dead,” he says, making Harry’s eyes widen with surprise. “But you are not quite alive, either.” 

“O-Oh.” Harry says, unsure of how he’s supposed to respond to that. Harry opens his mouth to ask another question but thinks better of it, choosing to bite his lip instead. Death sat in an unnaturally stiff position, his legs crossed in a way to look human, but his board-like posture made him look awkward and uncomfortable. It made Harry’s back ache just looking at it. 

They sit in silence for even longer—or perhaps, no time has passed at all. The movement of time in this place was strange, and Harry didn’t really understand it at all—Harry in his relaxed, albeit defensive, form, and Death in his unnatural stance. 

“So… Why am I here?” Harry finally asks, the silence becoming tense and awkward. Death looks at Harry, his eye-less sockets making Harry tense. 

“Because you weren’t ready to go,” he says, making Harry’s face scrunch up with more confusion. So far, Harry has received no answers, only more questions. Death leans forward to push his hands against the strange ground and stand up, his galaxy cloak fluttering against the nonexistent wind. He starts to walk away from Harry, his feet making no noise as they hit the ground. Harry watches him walk away for a few moments before he pauses and turns around to look at him. “Follow me.” 

Harry startles and quickly stands, surprised at the lack of pain and aches in his joints that had become the norm for him, and follows after the figure, his feet making loud clattering noise against the harsh silence. 

Death walks in a graceful manner, his feet silent and his arms folded behind his back. It was so strange to see the body of a child act in such a manner, but Harry said nothing. As they walked, Harry’s eyes trailed across the void, searching for any sign of movement, but found none. It all looked the same to Harry, so much so that Harry wasn’t entirely sure they were even moving in the first place. 

An eerie tune began to play, and it took Harry a few seconds to realize that the sound was Death humming beside him. Harry’s eyes were wide as he listened to the hum, and somewhere deep inside him, Harry could have sworn he’d heard it before. It was a strange little tune, full of pain and sorrow, with bits of joy and happiness in between. It resonated with him in a way he’d never felt before. 

They continue to walk, Harry enjoying the strange hum of Death, while Death continues to walk in his strange way for a little while before Death speaks again. “You knew you were a Horcrux.” he says, and Harry can tell that it isn’t a question. 

Harry fiddled with his hands as he spoke. “I… I did,” he said, and Death continues to hum. “I knew that I was Tom’s Horcrux when he… when it hit me.” 

Death says nothing, only humming softly as they walk, and Harry takes it as a cue to continue. “I… I had a reason, you know,” he adds. “For doing it. It wasn’t… it’s not what you think.” 

“I am all-seeing,” Death says. “Nothing can hide from me. Not even you.” 

Harry flushes, quickly darting his gaze to the side to avoid Death’s strange look. “I did what I had to…” he says, a hand slowly creeping forward to rub at his scar. “I did it for him. For everyone. It… It was for the Greater Good.” 

“I never understood that phrase,” Death says, and Harry quickly turns his head in surprise, Death’s strange, sickly face looking forward into nothingness. “Men are killed for the ‘Greater Good’. Women are widowed and sold for the ‘Greater Good’. Children are made to be soldiers for the ‘Greater Good’. The only thing the ‘Greater Good’ has done is upset the balance of the natural order.” 

“W-What are you saying?” Harry asks. 

Death stops, and the sudden movement causes Harry to stumble a few steps ahead before he turns to face him. Death looks up at him, his face tilted to the right ever so slightly in a way that makes his sickly form look innocent with child-like curiosity. The sight of it sends a shiver down Harry’s spine. 

“Did you want to die, Harry Potter?” 

The question freezes Harry to the core, his breath coming out in a punched gasp, his eyes widening with shock. He stares at Death in stunned silence, his mouth opening and closing with an answer that never comes. What kind of question is that? 

“I could never understand how souls were so willing to tear themselves apart for the ‘Greater Good’,” Death continues when Harry does not respond. He starts to walk again, ignoring Harry’s frozen figure. “So eager to save the majority when the majority would not extend the same courtesy to you.” 

“It’s… It’s not about repayment,” Harry says, shaking himself from his stupor. He’s been standing in place for so long that he has to jog a little to catch up to Death. “It’s about helping people.” 

“It’s always so interesting to meet a pure soul,” Death says in response. “So kind and helping. To see a pure soul live so long without being tainted. Remarkable.” 

“Pure soul?” 

“Souls are not inherently good or bad,” Death says with a wave of his hand. “Souls are born pure—bright and happy, untouched by hate and anger. It is through the circumstances of their life, that a pure soul slowly darkens and changes.

“A soul can become so infested with hate and fear that it lashes out and harms others. It is a sickness, pain,” Death continues. “It longs to be felt by all around it so that it will no longer be alone.” 

“Misery loves company.” Harry says softly. 

“Exactly,” Death nods. “Like a virus, hate spreads and infects. Those who have been hurt will hurt others to drown the pain. A vicious cycle that plagues the world.” 

Harry thinks of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and the way they treated him as a child. Aunt Petunia, feeling hurt and betrayed by her sister’s magic, taking it out on Harry and drawing her entire family in on it. Fear and hate beget fear and hate. 

“A pure soul, however,” Death says suddenly, drawing Harry’s attention back to him. “Is a soul that has seen fear and hate, but does not succumb to it. A soul that has experienced pain, but rather than cause others that very same pain, it strives to save others from that fate.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Pure souls are a good thing. Something to be cherished and loved,” Death hums. “But something one must protect as well.”

“I don’t understand…” Harry says softly, his face scrunching with confusion. 

“Sometimes a Pure Soul can burn itself out in its desire to save others,” Death says, and suddenly Harry feels like Death is staring pointedly at him, despite the boy staring straight ahead. “They can drown under the weight of saving others, and that soul can be lost. A truly terrible thing to witness.” 

“What does this have to do with the Greater Good?” Harry demands, stopping in place. Death stops as well, choosing to slowly look up at him, making Harry’s hands tremble under the scrutiny. 

“Pure Souls drown under the weight of the ‘Greater Good’,” he says. “Just as you have.” 

“I didn’t… That’s not…” Harry stutters, his heart racing madly in his chest. “I did what needed to be done. For everyone. I was making things better!” 

“Did you?” Death asks, tilting his head. 

“Yes!” Harry cried, his teeth clenching with frustration. “Thanks to me, Tom will be whole and the Wizarding World is saved!” 

“But everyone you cared about is alone,” Death points out, making Harry’s chest clench. “Do you think that’s better?” 

Harry’s breath hitched in the back of his throat, and suddenly Harry felt the ridiculous urge to cry. He clenched his jaw, pointedly looking away from Death and his sickly, child-like body. “Why am I here?” he asked, choosing not to respond to Death’s previous question. 

“Did you want to die?” 

“Why does that matter?” Harry demanded. “That doesn’t have anything to do with this!” 

“It has everything to do with this,” Death argues. “Answer me, Harry Potter, did you want to die?” 

Harry blinks, his eyes suddenly stinging. Did he want to die? An image of Tom laughing flashes in his mind. The smell of parchment, the sound of rain, the way the light bounces off the snow just right in the winter. Ron and Hermione arguing over homework and the taste of Mrs. Weasley’s pie. Tom’s smile as he tickled Harry, Tom holding Harry to his chest after a nightmare, the smell of his scent and the warmth of his secure arms sending Harry back to sleep in an instant. 

Did he want to die?

“No.” Harry says softly, the feeling of grief washing through him so suddenly made Harry wrap his arms around his waist. “No, I didn’t.” 

Death nods. “That is why you are in this place.” he says, his hand sweeping out to gesture towards the blank void. 

“What is this place?” Harry asks, holding himself tighter. 

“This is the In-Between,” Death says. “A place between worlds where souls come to wait, toeing the line between life and death. This is where you’ll remain until you make your decision.” 

Harry frowned. “My decision?”

“On whether you wish to return to the one you love or leave him and everyone you’ve ever cared about for the peace you’ve always longed for.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
| _1995_ |  
The doorbell rings, interrupting Harry in the middle of cleaning the kitchen. He can hear the grumbles from the living room over the television before Uncle Vernon shouts, “Get the damn door, boy!” Harry rolls his eyes and places the mop down, wiping his hands on his oversized shirt as he walks towards the front door. 

“We’re not interested—” Harry says as he opens the door, intent on sending the salesman away, only to freeze when he sees who’s standing there. His face drops into a deep scowl as he crosses his arms. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Standing there in all his pompous glory is Voldemort. He lets out a mock gasp of offense and shakes his head at Harry, clicking the back of his teeth. “Language, Harry!” he says with a frown. “Honestly, were you raised in a barn?” 

“What are you doing here?” Harry hisses. “Seriously, you are such a creep!” 

“I thought since our last date went so well—” 

“It wasn’t a date you creepy grandpa!” 

“—we should do it again!” Voldemort says, ignoring Harry’s grumbles of protest. “Come now, dearest, it will be fun! Let’s go out!” 

“Do I have a choice?” Harry drawls, glaring at the Dark Lord. 

“Of course not,” Voldemort replies without a beat. Harry let out a low, suffering sigh as Voldemort beams at him. “I did tell you I’d kidnap you next time I felt lonely.” 

“I’m going to get a restraining order on you.” Harry threatens, his hand coming up to tug at his messy hair. 

“Don’t be silly, a restraining order won’t stop me,” Voldemort says with a wave of his hand. Harry grits his teeth. “Now, stop being so difficult and come with me.” 

“You’re a creep. I’m not going anywhere with you.” Harry snapped. “Now, get off my property!” Harry takes great delight in slamming the door shut, even if it causes Uncle Vernon to yell at him from the living room. 

Harry marches back to the kitchen, a proud smile on his face as he grabs the mop and continues to clean. Aunt Petunia walks in a few seconds later, a scowl set deep into her face. “Who was at the door, boy?” she demands. 

“No one, Aunt Petunia,” Harry says. “Just a salesman. I sent him away.” 

Aunt Petunia glares at him for another moment before she nods. “Don’t slam my door again,” she snaps. “Or you’ll sleep with no dinner!” 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.” Harry answers, knowing that it was better to simply agree with her. She casts one last look at the kitchen with a beady eye before she retreats into the living room, leaving Harry alone with the blessed silence. 

Harry snickers as he mops, recalling the way Voldemort had looked as he slammed the door shut in his face. That’ll teach him! Seriously, does he have any idea just how nuts he is? Harry just shakes his head and continues to mop, the mindless task doing wonders for Harry’s shock. 

He’s isn’t sure how much time has passed when the phone rings, but he knows that it’s been more than an hour as he’s finished mopping and waxing the floor. He hears movement in the living room which suggests Aunt Petunia has gotten up to answer the phone, so Harry goes back to dusting. 

A few minutes later, Aunt Petunia marches into the kitchen with a frown on her face. She takes in the clean kitchen and gives a curt nod before she speaks. “Boy!” she says. “A new neighbor moved in down the street and the mother asked if anyone could show their son around. I’d let my precious Dudders do it, but he’s resting from all that exercise.” 

Exercise. Right. Harry bites back a snort. Dudley, who was once again told by his doctor that he was dangerously overweight, was put back on his diet with an added three hours of exercise a day. Dudley’s idea of exercise consisted of walking from his bed to the fridge and back, but now Aunt Petunia made him do jumping jacks and squats in the living room every morning. Today, Dudley complained loudly for an hour and a half, begged Aunt Petunia for more food for thirty minutes, watched television for forty-five minutes, then spent fifteen minutes waving his arms up and down to get sweaty. 

“You’re going to show their son around the neighborhood,” Aunt Petunia continued. “You are going to be nice and friendly and make us look good. Do you understand? I don’t want to hear about any freaky business or you’ll regret it!” 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.” Harry said. It was surprising to hear his Aunt tell him to go outside, especially on chore day. He didn’t know a new family had moved in, but he heard the couple a few houses up the street had moved out because they were expecting triplets. Someone must have taken the house. 

Harry placed the dusting rag on the counter and went to put his slightly nicer clothes on—and while they were still hideous and oversized on him, Harry had found a way to make it look fashionable instead of neglectful. He quickly put his sneakers on and left the house before Aunt Petunia could change her mind and make Harry weed the garden instead. 

He was met with a shocking sight that made Harry’s feet stumble against the ground. 

“Are you _kidding me_?!” he cried, staring at Voldemort with irritation. “I should’ve known. How did you do that?” 

“It wasn’t really that hard,” Voldemort shrugged. “Simply a phone call and glamour. I was forced to get creative when you so rudely slammed the door in my face.” 

“You know what else is rude?” Harry grumbled under his breath. He sent a longing look back at the front of the house, but before he had the chance to make a run for it, Voldemort looped his arm around Harry’s elbow and tugged him forward. 

“Come now, dearest,” Voldemort said, leading them down the street. “I know the perfect spot for our next date.” 

The perfect spot ended up being a park a few blocks away from Privet Drive. The area was nice and full of people walking their dogs and playing frisbee. Children’s laughter echoed across the land as the leaves rustled against the light summer breeze. As much as he hates to admit it, it’s a really beautiful place. 

“You know I have a protective detail, right?” Harry asks as Voldemort guides him to a bench by a pond where ducks swim. After the last kidnapping, Voldemort mentioned something about an Order, which led Harry to discover the group of wizards that had been subtly trailing him all summer. 

“Why should they be worried?” Voldemort asked. “After all, they heard someone call your Aunt and ask her to send you to show me around. I look like a standard fifteen-year-old boy to everyone but you. There’s nothing to protect you from.” 

“That’s… so weird.” Harry says, sitting down on the metal bench stiffly, his emerald eyes staring resolutely at the ducks swimming in the pond below. 

They sit in awkward silence for a while before Voldemort clears his throat. “Would you want a pond at the cottage?” he asks, startling Harry enough to make him look at Voldemort. 

“How do you know about that?” he asks, his eyes wide. 

“I have all of those memories, remember?” Voldemort says with a grin. 

“Is that why you’re kidnapping me all the time?” Harry asks. “Because of the way Tom felt about me?” 

“First of all, it's not a kidnapping, and I do wish you’d stop calling it that. It’s merely… a forceful date between friends,” Voldemort says, making Harry scoff. “And second, I am Tom. We are one and the same. All of his feelings are mine. How many times must I explain it to you?” 

Harry is silent for a while as he digests Voldemort’s words. If Voldemort is truly Tom like he claims, then that means somewhere, deep down, there is a little bit of Harry’s friend in him. Harry blushes at the thought and quickly shakes his head, throwing the idea from his mind. Voldemort looks at him curiously, but Harry quickly says, “We’re not friends.” to get him to stop looking at him. 

Voldemort hums softly before looking up at the sky, a small smile on his face. The sight of it makes Harry frown. Why should he be smiling when Harry is sitting next to him, denying any sort of bond with him? Why is he so creepy? 

“Summer has always been my favorite season,” Voldemort says softly, his crimson eyes gazing up at the puffy white clouds with a peaceful glint. “It was always so warm and peaceful. All the other children could go outside and play and leave me alone, which suited me just fine as I despised them. It was always nice and quiet in the summertime.” 

It was completely random, but Harry took the subject change gratefully. Anything to get the man to stop confessing his feelings towards Harry. “I always like the fall,” Harry said. “The colors are beautiful, and the leaves crunch beneath your feet. It’s not too cold or warm. Fall is when school starts.” 

“I imagine going to school is the best part of your year, what with living with your relatives and all,” Voldemort says. “I too loved Hogwarts. Hogwarts is the only place where I’ve truly felt at home.” 

“Me too…” Harry says softly, his eyes wide at the admission. 

“I think I’d feel at home in the cottage too,” he continues. “It’d be in the country-side by a small river. Away from all the people that annoy me.” 

Harry snorted. “How would you go to the store? You wouldn’t be able to eat!” 

“You’d grow the vegetables for us, of course,” Voldemort answers quickly. “Corn, lettuce, tomatoes. You could grow wheat, too. Make our own bread.” 

“That stuff doesn’t grow year-round,” Harry points out. “We’d have to go to a store at some point! What about our toiletries? Do you expect me to grow shampoo, too?” 

Voldemort grinned at Harry’s teasing voice. “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded. “We could live by a village, perhaps. Far away enough that we wouldn’t run into anyone, but close enough to apparate.” 

“We’d have chickens,” Harry says with a smile, imagining a peaceful cottage by the river with a couple of chickens scuttling about the property. “I’ve always wanted to own a few. We could have our own fresh eggs!” 

“Any other animals?” Voldemort asks. Harry shakes his head. 

“No, only the chickens,” he says. “Maybe a house cat or a snake, but I worry they’d eat the chickens!” 

“We can’t have that.” Voldemort says in all-seriousness. The somber tone forces a laugh at Harry, unbidden. 

“No, we can’t,” he says with a nod. “Oh! A flower garden in the front! I could grow sunflowers!” 

“Why sunflowers?” Voldemort asks in surprise. “That’s such an odd flower to grow.”

“They’re my favorite flower,” Harry says shyly. “I love how bright and yellow they are. I’ve never seen one in person before.” 

Voldemort nods and looks back at the ducks. “We could do it, you know,” he says softly. Harry frowns as he turns to look at the man. Voldemort looks back at him, his crimson eyes meeting Harry’s with such a deep intensity, it jolted Harry from his peaceful banter. “We could have our own cottage. I already have the place picked out. Flowers in the front, vegetables in the back. A couple of chickens milling about. We could do it.” 

Harry was frozen, his eyes wide. “I…” 

“Of course, I can’t be there with you all the time,” Voldemort continues as though he couldn’t see Harry’s horrified gaze. “Not right now, anyway. I’ll be a bit busy, but I promise you won’t get too lonely with the chickens there.” 

“Busy doing what? Taking over England?” Harry asks bitterly, visibly drawing in on himself. Harry felt so stupid. He couldn’t believe he forgot who he was talking to. This was Lord Voldemort, not Harry’s friend Tom. For a moment there he’d forgotten everything this man had done to him and allowed himself to dream about the cottage. 

He was so foolish. 

“Well, yes,” Voldemort says, and Harry can see the confusion in his eyes that shows he doesn’t understand why Harry is reacting like this. The sight makes him angrier. “But it won’t take too long. Don’t worry dearest, I wouldn’t leave you alone.” 

“You can’t just whisk me away from my life!” Harry cries, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he shoots up, startling the ducks at the edge of the water. “We aren’t friends! We aren’t lovers! You are a Dark Lord and I am a fifteen-year-old on the other side of the war!”

“Calm down, Harry, you’re making a scene,” Voldemort says, and Harry looks around to see a couple of people staring at him in confusion. Voldemort takes out his wand, causing Harry to flinch, only for the man to wave a couple of notice-me-not charms all around him. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset. You want the cottage as much as I do!”

“That’s not… I don’t… It’s different!” Harry cried. “This can’t happen between us! It’s wrong! Seriously, what do you want from me?!”

Voldemort stands, his face darkening with serious intent. He steps forward, and Harry steps back, his eyes wide and heart racing at the determined glint in Voldemort’s eyes. He is suddenly reminded of that night in the Graveyard when Voldemort stepped towards him, just before his face changed into gleeful recognition, his eyes were dark with the same intent. 

Voldemort’s hand shoots out to grip Harry’s wrist tight enough to stop him, but gentle enough that Harry knew it wouldn’t leave a mark. Voldemort tugged him forward, causing Harry to lose his balance and fall into the man’s chest. Voldemort wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, drawing him closer. He leaned forward to whisper in Harry’s ear, his breath tickling the back of his neck. Harry’s face flushed red.

“Everything my diary felt for you, I now feel,” he said in a dark whisper. “That means you belong to me the way you belonged to him. Don’t worry, love, I always take care of my things.” 

“I-I’m not yours!” Harry shouts, struggling against his hold. He manages to get his hands up to brace Voldemort’s chest, using the grip to shove away from Voldemort’s caging hold. “I don’t belong to you! I don’t belong to anyone!” 

Harry finally breaks free of the Dark Lord’s grip, the extra momentum causing Harry to stumble. Voldemort just looks at him with condescending fondness. “Of course you do, Harry,” he coos. “But you don’t have to be afraid. I promise you’ll be quite happy with me. I promise I will never hurt you.” 

“But you have!” Harry cries. “Remember? You kidnapped me! You killed my parents! You killed Cedric! You made me duel you! I could’ve died!” 

Voldemort grins. “I knew you would live.” he says. 

“But what if I didn’t?!” Harry insists. 

Voldemort’s face darkens, his eyes flashing grim. He stepped forward, and Harry had nowhere to run—unless he wanted to end up in the pond—and Voldemort wraps his arms around Harry again, drawing him into a tight embrace. He nuzzles his face into Harry’s hair and breathes in deeply, causing Harry to shiver. When he speaks, his voice is full of an unknown emotion, the very sound of it making Harry’s hair stand on end. 

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you died by my hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Finally getting into the plot! Poor Voldemort, he really does _not_ understand relationships...  
> \---------------  
> Kinglsey: Where's Harry?  
> Tonks: Showing some new kid around  
> Kinglsey: New kid?  
> Tonks: Yeah he's Harry's age  
> Tonks: Kind of looks like a prick, but don't tell anyone I said that


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _WARNING:_ There is some light smut in the chapter. This happens in a flashback when Harry is seventeen and has given his full consent!

Voldemort slammed the book shut with a frustrated growl, the loud noise echoing against the silent walls of the mildly destroyed library. Out of the corner of his eye, Voldemort could see the mudblood flinch at the loud, unexpected noise, but Voldemort paid her no mind. They’d been searching for hours, and they had still found nothing! Voldemort was seriously starting to lose his patience, not that he had much, to begin with. 

He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to force himself to calm down, but it was no use. The anger had bubbled up in his chest and was threatening to spill out and in order to stop himself from blowing up the entire library in his ire, Voldemort turned to address the two traitors. 

“Three days.” he snarled, relishing their fear-filled gaze. “It has been three days and you have nothing. Nothing!” 

“It will take time,” Granger said firmly. Although there was much to hate about her, one thing that Voldemort, loathe he was to admit it, admired about the mudblood was her refusal to back down, even when she was afraid. “Everything we’re doing is theoretical. There’s no precedent!”

“I didn’t bring you here for _theoretical_ ,” Voldemort snapped. “I brought you here to get answers!” 

“We’re trying!” she cried. “We haven’t slept! We barely eat! We are doing everything we can to find the answer we need! But we need more time!”

“WE DON’T HAVE _TIME_!” Voldemort yelled, slamming his fist against the wall when a strong burst of rage traveled through him, his outburst causing the bookshelf next to him to rock. Granger and Weasley were frozen, their eyes wide with terror at Voldemort’s outburst. He breathed in deeply, forcing himself to calm down before he simply said ‘to hell with it’ and killed everyone in sight. “We don’t have time.” he repeated, softer this time as resignation coursed through him. 

There wasn’t much time left and Voldemort was starting to lose himself without Harry, he could feel it. It had been almost two weeks since the battle of Hogwarts—two weeks since Harry...—and while Voldemort didn’t know much about the art of Necromancy and the science of bringing back the dead, but he did know that his window was closing. Voldemort had preserved Harry’s body but if his soul had crossed over it might be too late to bring him back. 

The mere thought of living without Harry sent waves of grief through his body, making his already overwhelmed mind break further under the strain of emotions, something that Voldemort was not used to. He had only just begun to accept and confront his emotions with the help of his lover before Harry Voldemort had always compartmentalized, and quickly after, Horcruxes took care of the problem for him. 

It was a little sad to realize that this was the first time Voldemort’s soul had been completely whole in several decades, yet the one person he wanted to share it with wasn’t here. 

“I swear we are doing everything we can…” Granger said softly, cautiously approaching him the way one would a wounded animal. The sight of her eyes—the unbearable, horrific _pity_ —made Voldemort snarl and back away from her, his hand automatically reaching for his wand. Granger paused where she stood, slowly nodding her head before backing away. “We just need a little more time.” 

Once again the request filled Voldemort with rage, the grief, and resignation from earlier long gone. Voldemort hissed at her, the rollercoaster of emotions overwhelming him and giving him whiplash. “There. Is. No. Time.” he said carefully, his tone laced with fury. “Find it now or die.” 

“This nuts!” Weasley exploded, causing Voldemort and Graner to look at him with equally incredulous expressions. 

“Ron…” Granger said, her eyes flitting between Voldemort’s carefully blank gaze and her blood traitor’s tomato-red face. 

“No!” he snapped. “This is nuts! Nuts, you hear me? Why are we helping him?!” 

“Harry—”

“Would not have wanted this if he went so far as to _die_ to get away from him!” Weasley seethed, his words coming out in a sharp breath of air through his grit teeth. Voldemort could feel his chest clench at the blood traitor’s words, and he was instantly furious with himself for allowing this insignificant pawn to attack him in such a way.

“Watch yourself, Weasley.” Voldemort said curtly, taking a single step forward menacingly. “Carefully.” 

“What are you gonna do? Kill me?” he taunted. “Harry’s dead and I’m not going to help you bring him back just so you can torture him again! Didn’t you get your fill already?” 

“You seem to be having trouble comprehending the situation you are in,” Voldemort said, striding forward, his patience finally snapping. His magic lashed out around him as he walked, ignoring the mudblood’s horrified gasp as he lifted the teen by his neck and slammed him against the wall, leaning in close to whisper into his ear. “You are only alive because Harry cares about you. You help me bring back Harry, you live to see another boring sunrise with your precious mudblood.” 

“You—” 

“Uh, uh, uh,” Voldemort tutted, interrupting the red-head before he had the chance to speak. He tightened his grip on the boy’s neck, delighting in the choked coughing sounds that followed. “Careful now, Mr. Weasley. We all know I’m not the best when it comes to my temper.” 

The sheer amount of loathing in Weasley’s gaze as they met Voldemort’s was astounding. Voldemort could honestly say that he’d never seen someone look at him with so much disgust, a fact that Weasley would no doubt be very proud of. Voldemort could see his pride shining through in his gaze, but the longer he stood there, refusing to submit, the darker his face turned and the more frenzied his clawing at Voldemort’s hand became. 

“Do you understand your predicament now, Mr. Weasley?” Voldemort asked in a sickly sweet tone. “Hmm?”

“Y-... Ye...Y-Yes.” he choked out, and even as he was submitting to him, the look of murderous rage in the boy’s eyes was enough to make Voldemort smirk. 

Voldemort dropped the boy instantly, the blood traitor crashing to the ground with a loud thud as coughs and sputters filled the air. Voldemort took a step back, absentmindedly inspecting the hand that Weasley had clawed at. There were three gauges in his hand, each wound leaking profuse amounts of blood. The boy had some claws on him, it appeared. 

While Voldemort healed his hand with a silent incantation, the mudblood had rushed to aid her lover with tears in her eyes. Weasley had tears flowing down his face as he heaved in great breaths, only to choke on a cough as he struggled to fill his lungs. Already, Voldemort could see purple bruises darken in the shape of a hand around his neck. 

“Now then,” Voldemort said, inspecting the cuffs of his sleeves and tightening the links. “I’m afraid I’ll be taking my leave now, lest I murder you. Stay here and find me my answers, or next time, the punishment won’t be as light.” 

They just nod, and Voldemort takes their silence as a win and smirks at them before turning on his heel and striding gracefully out of the library. Despite his outward appearance, Voldemort can feel himself writhe with turmoil. He really didn’t want to damage Harry’s friends, no matter infuriating the pair was, and he feared he’d truly lose control if he spent another minute in that room with them. 

Voldemort knew what they thought, he wasn’t stupid. Anyone with half a brain could see that they believed there was something more to what Voldemort had told them, which was true so Voldemort wasn’t surprised. He had no doubt that the blood traitor thought horrible things of him, so by default, the blood traitor assuming that Voldemort had forced Harry into a relationship with him—the way his pathetic mother did with his equally pathetic father—wasn’t too much of a stretch. Voldemort knew it would happen, and even Harry had predicted it.

So why did it bother him so much? 

With a frustrated growl, Voldemort dismissed the thoughts from his head before they could take root. He had no need for the mudblood and blood traitor’s approval. Voldemort was above such pathetic things. Besides, he had more important things to worry about right now. 

For example, why one of his higher Death Eaters dared approach him. 

“My Lord.” Rowle said, bowing his head and refusing to meet Voldemort’s gaze until Voldemort allowed it. Voldemort suppressed a sneer, his fingers itching to curse the man in front of him for daring to interrupt him. The last thing Voldemort wanted to deal with right now was Death Eater politics.

But alas, needs must. “Rowle.” Voldemort said curtly, his eyebrow raising as he adopted his mask. “Is there a reason you are addressing me at this moment?” 

Rowle flushed at the tone but remained strong, his head lifting to meet Voldemort’s eyes. “The people are getting nervous, My Lord,” he said. “They are anxiously awaiting news.” 

“You dare imply that I am unfit to lead?” Voldemort narrowed his eyes dangerously, and Rowle frantically shook his head, beads of sweat appearing at his forehead.

“Never, My Lord, never!” he cried. “I… I am here to see if you have anything you wish to relay to your people.” 

“You do not come to me, I come to you!” Voldemort hissed, finally whipping out his wand to take out his frustration on a prime target. Rowle screeched under the _Cruciatus_ , instantly falling to the floor and flapping about like a fish. Voldemort lifted it after a few seconds, however, when he found that the usual euphoria that followed the curse did not appear. For some reason, Voldemort’s favored torture curse had lost some of it’s appeal. 

Rowle lay panting on the ground, his arms spasming every few seconds or so as he recovered from the curse. Voldemort, however, was standing still, eyeing the man with curiosity. How is it that the curse did nothing for him? Ever since he was a teen, using the _Cruciatus_ on someone gave him a blissful high as it cemented his power over others. Yet somehow, as Voldemort looked down on Rowle with disdain, he felt nothing. 

“I… I… give my sin-... sincerest apologies… My Lord,” Rowle said in between breaths and spasms. “P-Please… forgive me.” 

A few months earlier and Voldemort was liable to hold him under the curse again just for daring to tell him what to do, yet now, Voldemort simply scoffed at the Death Eater. “Stand, Rowle.” he demanded, watching as the man struggled to get to his feet. His legs trembled under his weight, and Voldemort could see his knees begin to buckle, so Voldemort made it quick. “I will address the Wizengamot tomorrow and introduce my plans. Send word.” 

“Y-Yes, My Lord.” Rowle said, dipping into a bow with the grace of a newborn deer. Voldemort merely sneered and walked away, no longer interested in anything the man had to say. 

His walk back to the office he claimed for himself was a silent one, no more interruptions plagued him as he made his way to the Headmaster’s office. The second the doors closed behind him, Voldemort sat down in the chair and rested his head against the back, his eyes fluttering shut. 

Voldemort, for once in his life, didn’t know what to do now. It was strange—and in hindsight, damning—how all of the plans that Voldemort had spent his entire life carefully crafting and perfecting had suddenly flown out the window the second Harry Potter was born. At first, it was simply the prophecy that changed things; his plans shifted from taking over the Ministry to hunting down and killing his prophesied doom. But when he met Harry, really _met_ him, his plans changed once more. 

The thought that Harry’s death had once been his goal had sickened Voldemort, thoughts of Harry’s death plaguing him almost as much as thoughts of his own death did. He swore to himself he’d do whatever it took to get Harry to stay with him forever, keeping him safe from any and all harm. 

His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. How horribly ironic that it would be Voldemort’s own hand that would slay his love, just as it did in the terrifying nightmares that would grip him so tightly, when he awoke, his heart would pound as though it were trying to escape his rib cage. 

When Harry had finally succumbed, when he finally agreed to be Voldemort’s, Voldemort had thought his life would be complete. Despite their several spats and obvious problems, Voldemort _loved_ Harry, something he once thought to be impossible. Voldemort knew Harry loved him too, even with the odds stacked against him. 

Together they had made a plan to better the Wizarding society; a plan that would end the bigotry and inequality over the span of the next century, subtle enough that the Pure-Bloods wouldn’t even know it was happening until it was too late for them to stop it. Voldemort would take over and Harry would change it for the better. That was the plan. 

But something went wrong somewhere and Voldemort didn’t know when it happened. 

Suddenly, Harry was pulling away from him, giving him these looks of concern and something _other_ that Voldemort just couldn’t figure out when he thought he wasn’t looking. Voldemort had panicked, the fear of losing Harry so strong that it overrode everything he’d been trying to do. Voldemort knew now that he must have scared Harry somehow with his desire to keep him safe. With his desire to keep him. That must be the reason why Harry left and did what he did. 

It _had_ to be, because if it wasn’t then that means—

Voldemort’s eyes snapped open, his mind instantly rejecting the thought before it could finish. He heaved out a harsh sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, returning his straying thoughts to the subject at hand. He needed to figure out what to say to the Wizengamot. Harry was supposed to talk to them and convince the public it was what they needed, not Voldemort. The public would be far more receptive to Harry than they ever would him. 

Suddenly an idea popped into his head, and Voldemort stood. Harry had written a journal full of his ideas on the laws they would pass together, and Voldemort could briefly recall Harry mentioning a speech inside it.  
  
  
  
_“You’re writing a what, love?” Voldemort asked, bemused. Harry just huffed and swatted away the hand that was currently twirling his black locks together._

_“A speech, Tom,” Harry said with exasperation. “Surely you’ve heard of one before. It’s when a person stands up and addresses a crowd with a carefully worded message.”_

_Voldemort chuckled. “Cheeky brat.” he said fondly, tweaking Harry’s cheek before leaning forward to place a gentle kiss in the same spot. He lingered there for a moment, delighting in the way Harry’s face flushed. Voldemort smirked before he pressed another kiss to his cheek, carefully trailing kisses down Harry’s face and stopping at his jawline, nipping at the bone that jutted out. Harry’s breath hitched in the back of his throat and Voldemort grinned, soothing the bite with his tongue._

_“Stop that!” Harry said, pulling away from Voldemort’s greedy hands. “You’re distracting me! I need to write this!”_

_“I’m distracting, am I?” Voldemort asked with a raised brow._

_“Yes,” Harry said with a sniff. “Kindly desist.”_

_“Whatever do you need a speech for?” Voldemort asked, trailing his fingers over Harry’s stomach, relishing the feeling of Harry’s stomach muscles tensing at the assault._

_“So the public will accept our laws, of course,” Harry said matter-of-factly. “What, did you really expect them to just agree to the laws because you’re a Dark Lord?”_

_He had, in fact, but he didn’t appreciate Harry’s tone. Rather than answer, Voldemort gently lifted the journal off the desk and closed it, tugging Harry out of the chair and into his lap. “I can think of a much more productive way to spend your time.”_

_“Oh, can you now?” Harry asked with a grin. He wrapped his arms around Voldemort’s neck, leaning forward until his lips were a hair’s breadth away from Voldemort’s ear. The whisper that followed sent shivers down his spine. “And what would that be?”_

_“Why don’t I show you?” Voldemort growled, lifting Harry, delighting in Harry’s shocked gasp, and quickly took Harry to the Master bedroom. Harry bounced lightly on the mattress when Voldemort tossed him, and Voldemort wandlessly shut the door and warded it. Harry was staring at him, his face flushed and his beautiful emerald orbs dilated slightly. The sight was magnificent. Voldemort growled as desire surged through him. He delighted in the way Harry's eyes followed him as he elegantly made his way to the bed. Voldemort pushed Harry down until he was lying flush against the mattress, and Voldemort climbed over him, caging him in with his hands at either side of his head. "Hello, love." he said._

_"H...Hi..." Harry said softly, his eyes trained on Voldemort's smirk. Voldemort licked his lips and Harry's gaze darkened with desire. "I thought you were gonna show me something?"_

_Voldemort chuckled, leaning forward so that he was lying on top of Harry, careful not to let his full weight rest on Harry's chest, and let on hand tace it's way from Harry's shoulder to the buttons on his shirt. As each button came undone, more and more Harry's pale skin was revealed. Harry was squirming under Voldemort's attention, his head shifting to look away from Voldemort's beady gaze, inadvertently baring his neck to Voldemort. Who was he to refuse such a wonderful gift?_

_Harry's surprised gasp turned into a soft whimper as Voldemort licked a long stripe down Harry's neck, pausing at the tendon that stuck out so that he could nibble and suck a love bite onto his skin. Harry's hand came up to grasp and Voldemort's head, pulling him closer as he whined. Voldemort chuckled and pulled back after he had left a few love bites, lightly blowing air onto the wet skin. Harry let out a cry as goosebumps erupted on his skin. "T-Tom!" he cried._

_"Yes, love? Did you want something?" Voldemort asked with a smirk. Harry scowled and thrust his hips up, wiping Voldemort's smirk clean off his face when their erections brushed against each other. Voldemort let out a hiss, nipping at Harry's ear in retaliation as Hary ground up against him. The friction was delicious, each roll of Harry's hips sending jolts of pleasure down his spine. Harry's breathy pants tickled Voldemort's ear and the sound only added to Voldemort's lust._

_"Tom p-please!" Harry whined, tugging at Voldemort's hair. Voldemort slid one hand under Harry's neck, lifting his head so that he could join his lips with Harry's, swallowing the boy's delicious moan when Voldemort's other hand quickly undid Harry's pants and freed his lover from his confines. Voldemort pulled away from Harry's kiss to see the way his lover's gorgeous emerald eyes rolled to the back of his head with pleasure as Voldemort twirled his thumb around Harry's head. "Tom!"_

_As Voldemort's hand sped up, Harry's back arched off the mattress, drawing Voldemort's eyes to his perfect form. Harry's shirt was unbuttoned exposing the boy's chest and pert nipples, but it was still on, as were his pants, which Voldemort had only pulled down a little in his haste. The partially-dressed state of his lover made Voldemort growl, Harry shivering in response. "Tom please, please, please." he repeated his words like a prayer, his eyelids fluttering. Voldemort could see he was on the brink._

_Voldemort leaned forward to suck Harry's nipple into his mouth, twirling the bud with his tongue for a second before he bit down on it. Hard._

_Harry screamed his release as his back arched in a way that seemed almost painful. When he finally collapsed against the bed spent, his body trembled from the aftershocks. Voldemort wordlessly cleaned his hand before cupping Harry's face to draw him into another kiss. The kiss escalated from sweet post-coitus bliss to heated very quickly. "You didn't finish," Harry pointed out, his eyes darting towards Voldemort's crotch._

_Voldemort grinned. "Have any suggestions for that?" Harry grinned as he climbed on top of Voldemort, Voldemort's hands automatically coming to rest at Harry's lithe hips. "I can think of a few."_  
  
  
  
Voldemort stopped the memory before it could continue any further, not wanting to deal with the emotions that would surely follow if he relived an intimate moment with his dead lover. He knew that he would be caught up with his desire for Harry and grief, and he was already overwhelmed with the mixture of emotions that plagued him. With the memory safely tucked away behind his occlumency wards, Voldemort apparates out of the office, taking great pleasure in bending the ancient wards so that he could get through. 

Voldemort needs Harry’s journal so he can address the Wizengamot in a way they’d be receptive to tomorrow, and to do that, Voldemort needed to go to the place where it was placed. 

Voldemort arrives in a plain, grassy field, dots of colors spread sporadically around as wildflowers grow naturally. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue and the air was clean and fresh. He could hear the water trickling in the distance from a nearby stream, only adding to the peaceful atmosphere. Behind him, a sparse forest grew, housing the birds that filled the air with soft caws. 

In front of him was a humble, but beautiful cottage. The stone of the cottage was aged but beautiful, and Voldemort could see the beginnings of vines growing on the stone. The roof was made of slates that hung over the walls ever so slightly, casting a subtle shade. There was a white picket fence surrounding the property, a small gate hovering over an in-laid stone path. 

In the front yard lay two planters boxes filled with sunflowers, their bright yellow brightening the area. He could hear the clucks of the chickens in the back, and despite having them placed in a coop, Voldemort had no doubts that they managed to escape and were now crowding around the fence that lined the vegetable garden. 

He took in the sight of the cottage with a sad, lonely smile. “Darling,” he said to the silence. “I’m home.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
| _1995_ |  
It’s only the second week of Hogwarts, and Harry is seriously starting to lose his mind. Never, in the history of his time here at Hogwarts, had Harry wished to hurt someone as badly as he did Professor Delores Umbridge. The wench—a term that Harry did not use lightly—had done much more than cause bodily harm. Harry could live with pain, he was incredibly used to physical harm, but what he couldn’t deal with was the way that she put children in danger because of her own fear and greed. That, to Harry, was unforgivable. 

They had never had a good Defense Teacher, save for perhaps Professor Lupin, but at least all the other teachers had allowed them to use their wands! Even the ones that tried to kill him had taught him some useful information. But Umbridge was so blinded by her greed and fear that she was making the students suffer for it.

“—eh, Harry?” 

“Hmm?” Harry said, looking up from his meal to see Ron and Hermione staring at him with concern. “What did you say?” 

“I asked what you thought about our new Defense teacher?” Hermione said, ignoring Ron’s scoff as he stuffed another pancake into his mouth. 

“I told you, she’s evil!” Ron said, in between bites. “Harry agrees, right mate?” 

“Ron! You can’t just call a Professor—” 

“Oh come _on_ , ‘Mione,” Ron whined. “You agree with me, even if you won’t say it! Honestly! Do you think she can smell the bullshite that comes out of her mouth, or is her head so far up the Minister’s arse that it all tastes the same?”

“ _RONALD_!” Hermione’s scandalized cry was heard over the noise of the Great Hall, but everyone was used to Hermione’s outbursts, so everyone quickly went back to their breakfast. 

Before the fight can escalate further, the owls swoop into the Great Hall with the morning mail. Usually, Harry just ignores the owls and continues on with his breakfast, but when an unfamiliar owl landed in front of him with a letter tied to it’s feet, his name written in irritatingly familiar handwriting, Harry knew it wasn’t going to be a normal morning. 

Both Hermione and Ron have noticed the letter, their argument being put to a halt as they looked at him curiously. “Who is the letter from, Harry?” Hermione asks, her hazel eyes taking in the fancy handwriting. 

Harry’s heart pounds as he snatches the letter and hides in his robes, quickly offering a stripe of bacon to the owl before shooing it away. “No one, it’s nothing.” Harry says quickly, brushing off his robes as he stands. “I have to go to class.” 

“Wha—Harry? Class doesn’t start for another hour? Harry?” Hermione’s voice calls after him as Harry rushes out of the Great Hall, his eyes wide with disbelief as the letter sits heavily in his pocket like a weight. 

He goes through the rest of the day on autopilot, one hand constantly finding the letter in his pocket and anxiously fiddling with it. Harry knew who the letter was from instantly, there was only one person who had such gaudy handwriting. The real question was why he would send Harry a letter? It was incredibly risky. What if Dumbledore had intercepted it? 

The thought of Dumbledore reading a private letter written to him the man who had killed his parents but for some reason was obsessed with dating him made Harry’s face flush red. He didn’t want anyone to know what was going on. _Not that anything was going on!_ Harry thought quickly, visibly shaking his head, ignoring the strange looks he received from his classmates. 

There was nothing… untoward happening between Harry and Voldemort, so there was no reason to be so secretive, right? 

Right?

Harry spent the entire day trying to ignore the burning of Voldemort’s letter in his pocket. He knew that Hermione and Ron were a little concerned about him, but Harry didn’t address their worries, choosing instead to tell them he was feeling tired and excused himself to sleep. Instead of sleeping, though, Harry just wound up tossing and turning on his bed for hours. Eventually, Harry let out a hoarse sigh, stuck his head through his curtains to make sure no one was awake, and carefully snuck downstairs to the empty common room. 

He held the letter in his hand guiltily, his eyes darting around to make sure no one was around before he opened it. The warm glow of the fireplace cast a gentle light on the parchment, and Harry sunk into the plush fabric of the couch as he read. 

_My dearest Harry_ , it read. The header made Harry blush, his eyes flitting away from the letter for a moment to compose himself before he continued. _I hope this letter finds you well, my dear, and I pray you miss me as much as I miss you. I long to see you again. I find myself waking up to the thought of your emerald eyes and radiant smile—_

“Jeez-us,” Harry hissed, dropping the letter into his lap as he covered his hot face with his hands. “What is this? What is he, some eighteenth-century casanova?! Merlin…” 

It took several minutes for Harry to compose himself enough to pick the letter back up and continue reading. _—I imagine reading this is quite overwhelming. Tell me, love, did you blush?_ “Arsehole.” Harry muttered. _Forgive me, Harry, but I haven’t had the chance to tease you in a while. I’ll stop now, though, lest you throw this letter in the fire._ Harry wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was seriously thinking about it. 

_I write this letter to you so that you know that no matter how far away from me you go, I still think of you. I miss you and I miss our dates. Tell me, would you like to have another one? I do recall you mentioning that I could kidnap you when I feel lonely. I find myself quite lonely now that you’ve gone off to Hogwarts._

“I am fifteen, you bloody pervert.” Harry muttered under his breath. 

_You’ve probably read that last line and responded with the weekly reminder of your age_ , the letter said, causing Harry to let out an irritated huff. He was not that predictable. _and so I remind you, Harry, for what must be the hundredth time, that I am courting you. Take the time to look into the topic now that you have the resources. I’m sure that you will understand the difference between ‘Courting’ and whatever you believe my intentions to be._

_I eagerly await your response_ , the letter finished. _Yours, Voldemort._

Harry stared at the letter incredulously, his eyes wide with disbelief. Did he seriously…? Harry’s eyes narrowed with a huff, shaking his head as he stood. Well, he read the letter. Consider his curiosity sated. He had no intention of writing Voldemort back, but as he stood to throw the letter in the fire, he paused. 

Harry stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace, unsure of what was keeping him from tossing the letter. Finally, after another few tense moments of silence, Harry just huffed and stuffed the letter into his pocket, quietly sneaking back upstairs where he hid the letter at the bottom of his trunk and fell into an uneasy sleep. 

The next morning Harry felt just as unsure as he did last night. He really didn’t know why he wasn’t saying anything. He should tell a Professor or something—this was Voldemort, after all! Yet, Harry did nothing but shuffle into the Great Hall for his breakfast as he did every other morning. 

“You good, mate?” Ron asked as he took a seat next to him. Hermione had sat down across the table from him, her eyes meeting Harry’s with a concerned look. “You seemed a bit… off yesterday.” 

“Uhh…” Voldemort’s letter flashed into his head for a moment before he blinked. “Er, yeah. I’m fine. Just… Something’s been bugging me.” 

“What is it?” Hermione asked kindly. 

“Um… Do either of you… know what… um, courting is?” Harry asked, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Hermione frowned for a moment as she tried to come up with an answer. Harry lifted his fork to eat a bit of eggs when Ron responded. 

“Courting? It’s a Pure-blood thing, I guess,” he said, eyeing Harry strangely. “Why are you interested?” 

“I read it in a book somewhere and I didn’t know what it meant.” Harry said quickly, shoving another forkful of food into his mouth before they could ask any more questions. “So, do you know what it is?” 

Hermione grimaced when Harry spoke with his mouth full, but nodded. “From what I could gather, it’s just a fancy way of saying you’re dating someone.” 

“Oh.” Harry said with a frown. Figures Voldemort would use fancy talk to say something like that. But did that mean Voldemort thought he and Harry were dating? Harry flushed at the thought of Voldemort considering him his boyfriend.

“Nah, it’s more than that.” Ron said with a shake of his head. 

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, looking at him curiously, eager for more information. 

“Dating is just something teens do. It doesn’t mean anything and it’s not serious,” Ron said. “If someone is courting you, it means they’re serious. There are a whole bunch of rules, too. It’s all very proper.” his face screwed up at the word. 

“Why would there be rules?” Hermione asked. “I still don’t see the difference.” 

“Well if you date someone, it’s not permanent,” Ron said. “If you court someone, it means you’re going to marry them.” 

Harry choked on his eggs. His friends eyed him strangely as he struggled to breathe, coughing out the chunk of food that got caught in his esophagus before he whipped his head around to stare at Ron with wide eyes. “ _WHAT_?!” he screeched. 

“You good, mate? What’s up with you?” Ron asked. 

“Wait, so you’re saying that if someone courts you, you have to _marry_ them?!” Harry cried, his eyes wide with shocked disbelief. 

“Well you don’t _have_ to,” Ron said with a frown. “But that’s the whole point of courting. You court someone with the intention of marriage. You can break a courtship if the couple decides they shouldn’t get married, but you have to pay reparations for the broken contract.” 

“What the fuck?” Harry said to himself. “What the _fuck_?!” 

“Harry, what’s this about? Are you okay?” Hermione asked leaning forward to look at him cautiously. 

“I’m fine I just… I, um… I need to go do something.” Harry said, standing up and running from the Great Hall mid-breakfast for the second day in a row. 

“What are you talking about?” Hermione called after him. “What do you need to do?!”

“I need to go write a letter.” he shouted as he left the Great Hall, the doors swinging shut behind him with a loud thud.  


* * *

  
_Thomas Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is Bloody Riddle_

_What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! Marriage?! Are you insane?! Actually, don’t answer that, you clearly are. Need I remind you that you are a Dark Lord who murdered my parents? Who tried to kill me? We are on two different sides of a war! And if that doesn’t change your mind, may I once again draw attention to the fact that I am FIFTEEN BLOODY YEARS OLD?!_

_Stop stalking me! You’re being a creepy creeper who creeps on poor, unsuspecting teenagers and it's weird! Stop it!_

_We are not courting! You are just some homicidal, megalomaniac that followed me home! What do you even what with me? Why would you want to marry me? If you’re trying to end the war via a political marriage, this is NOT the way to do it!_

_As for another date? THEY AREN’T DATES THEY’RE KIDNAPPINGS! Take off the rose-tinted glasses and look at your actions! If you try to kidnap me again for another one of your ‘outings’ I swear I will pepper spray you so hard!_

_(In case you don’t know what Pepper spray is, it’s a muggle contraption that was designed to protect people from creeps like you!)_

_From, a very trigger happy Harry Potter_  


* * *

  
_My darling Harry,_

_Your letter was filled with such explicit language, I was honestly shocked. I did pick up on a hint of anger, and I wonder if that was your intention? As I read your letter—very happy to receive one, by the way—I was shocked to see such accusations. I assure you, dearest, my affections for you are as genuine as the people I’ve killed. Courting you has nothing to do with the war. In fact, I intend to keep you as far away from the fighting as possible._

_(On an unrelated note, would you prefer to live by the countryside or the sea?)_

_As for your other concerns about our courtship, allow me to put you to ease. Most courtships begin at age fifteen, so there is no problem with your age. To seek a physical relationship with you before you are of age and without your consent would be highly improper and completely inappropriate. You need not fear such things. All advances will be made when you are ready and accepting, I assure you._

_Our dates—and yes, Harry, they are dates. Kidnapping is such an uncouth way of looking at it—are meant to help us get to know each other and see if we are compatible. I already know we are, but it won’t work unless you see it too._

_As for your threats of bodily harm, it is quite amusing to see you threaten me Harry, but I assure you whatever a ‘Pepper Spray’ is, it won’t harm me. Muggles could not dream of harming the great Lord Voldemort._

_I eagerly await your next letter, beloved._

_Yours, Voldemort_

_P.S My middle name is Marvolo_  


* * *

  
_Thomas the even creepier tank engine_

_I’m glad you picked up on the anger, I feared it was too subtle. Here’s a helpful tip if you’re serious about trying to woo me, or whatever: Don’t use murder as a flirting tool. It’s unflattering. (Seriously. You’re like three times my age, why am I giving you dating advice?)_

_As for our nonexistent courtship… I believe the reason why courting is accepted so early is that both participants are close to or the same age. That does not apply here which means you’re still a creepy creeper and I still have reason to file a restraining order. I don’t care if I seem ‘uncouth’ when I discuss your ‘outings’, I’m just calling it like I see it._

_And I see it as kidnapping._

_If you truly believe you are infallible to Pepper Spray, then I’m sure you won’t mind me using it on you next time you pop up out of nowhere to forcibly spend time with me. (A little sad that you have to force people to hang out with you, Tom) I’d love to see the Great Lord Voldemort’s reaction to a muggle weapon._

_That was not an invitation, by the way._

_Seriously, go stalk someone else. Try Snape. He’s probably lonely, too. You two deserve each other._

_From, the Boy-Who-Wants-You-To-Go-Away_  


* * *

  
_My beloved Harry,_

_I am not sure what the name you addressed me as in your last letter means, but will assume it was an insult. I am glad to see our relationship has progressed to the point of playful banter. Your dating advice was most helpful, Harry, whatever would I do without you?_

_Must you refer to our lovely time together as forceful?_

_I have already taken your last note as an invitation, and I am eagerly making plans to see you. Have you ever had sushi? I hear it’s quite delicious. As for your concerns about our age… again… nothing untoward will happen until you are of age and with your full consent. Why do you linger so much on my age?_

_Severus cannot hold a candle to you, my love. You have no need to fear him stealing my heart. I took your last line as a sweet cry for attention, and I have no doubt that you are feeling insecure due to our distance. Don’t worry, love, I saw your sentence for what it truly meant and I promise you I will remain true to you._

_I welcome the challenge of this muggle contraption called ‘Pepper Spray’. I will defeat it with ease._

_Yours, Voldemort_  


* * *

  
_Creep_

_There are so many things wrong with your last letter, I’m not sure which I should respond to first. Should I begin with the obvious muggle insult that you’ve somehow misconstrued to be ‘playful banter’ when it was my full intention to offend you? Or perhaps I should begin with the fact that you see nothing wrong with pursuing a relationship with someone who could be your grandchild! Just because you won’t try to do anything physical with me (I WILL punch you in the balls if you do that, by the way) until I’m of age doesn’t mean it is okay!_

_I will not, however, address the ridiculous notion that I am feeling insecure in a relationship I have no interest in. And I will definitely not address the implication that I am JEALOUS of SNAPE!_

_That was just hurtful._

_I’m not kidding about the Pepper spray. I have a whole bottle._

_From, Harry I-WILL-SPRAY-YOU Potter_  


* * *

  
_My lovely Harry,_

_I cannot wait to see you. For some reason, your letters have been delayed, and I heard from my followers that someone was causing trouble at the school. Is everything all right there? The first Hogsmeade trip is this weekend and I intend to spring you for a pleasant date in Little Whinging. Never fear, dearest, I will return you to Hogsmeade safely._

_I apologize for the hurt I’ve caused you, as it was never my intention. Your latest threat, however, leaves me wondering if you feel the same? Threatening to damage my manhood is not only damaging to me but you as well. However will I keep you satisfied if you do away with it?_

_Present this Pepper Spray and I shall prove my superiority._

_Yours, Voldemort_  


* * *

  
_You_

_I cannot BELIEVE YOU DID THAT!!!!!!!!!! You promised me you wouldn’t hurt her! Was me spraying you with Pepper Spray in the face not enough?! Do you want to repeat that experience because I swear I will do it next time I see you! You took me from Hogsmeade, made me tell you who hurt my hand and broke your promise!_

_Umbridge has been going through the mail which is why I received your letter so late. Even if she used a Blood Quill on me, it does NOT give you the right to carve into her face! Are you nuts?! What’s the matter with you?!_

_I swear if I see you anytime soon it’s not just the Pepper Spray you have to worry about! I have no need for your ‘manhood’ so I would have no regrets if I slammed my knee in between your legs hard enough to make you squeal louder than you did when I sprayed Pepper Spray in your eyes._

_I trusted you and you deceived me._

_From Harry_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Voldemort slowly walks up to the cottage, the grass bending as he stepped on it. The cottage was exactly as he remembered, and the sight of it unchanged after everything else had changed so much made Voldemort’s eyes sting. 

Voldemort made this cottage in secret during the war. No one knew it existed, not even Harry. It was meant to be a surprise to him after the war ended. This was their place away from it all. This cottage was their dream come true. 

This cottage, which one made Voldemort feel so warm, dizzy with hope, was cold and empty without Harry beside him. 

He entered the cottage and took a moment to compose himself when he was greeted with the interior. The cottage was small but comfortable. Cozy, Harry would call it. The front door opened into an open hallway. To the left of the front door was the living room, plush sofas, and sitting chairs centered around a fireplace and coffee table. To the right of the door was the kitchen, a large bayonet window with a bench table and all the appliances Harry would need to cook and bake. The back door was at the end of the hall. 

As he walked through the house, past the open rooms, he got to the other three rooms of the cottage. One led to a bathroom, another to Voldemort’s office. The door Voldemort went through, however, led to the master bedroom, the only bedroom in the house. 

He opened the door and was greeted with a cozy four-poster king-sized bed with soft linens and comforters and furs on top. Bookshelves lined the right wall with a window seat in the middle, and on the left, a closet and a Master bath. 

This was the room that Voldemort had made for them. This was going to be their home. Harry had always wanted this place, the cottage they fantasized about, and now Harry might never get to see it. 

His eyes traveled the length of the room, forcing himself to remember the reason he came here. He was here for Harry’s journal, not to reminisce and get lost in the memories of his lover. Before he found the journal, however, his eyes caught on something else. Something that shouldn’t be there. 

He steps closer to the bed, his eyes narrowing on a folded piece of paper sitting laying on top of one of the pillows. As soon as he was close enough to read the name on the letter, his body freezes, his eyes widening and his breath hitching in the back of his throat. 

Voldemort knew that handwriting as well as he knew his own. This was the handwriting that Voldemort had spent countless hours scrutinizing, reading and then rereading over and over again just to feel closer to him. 

Harry had left him a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this extra-long chapter as an apology for the long wait. Things have been pretty crazy lately, as I'm sure everyone understands. More history about Tom and Harry!!! Yay!!! Things are starting to pick up hehe... 
> 
> Also, on the off chance that anyone makes fanart for this or wants to make fanart for this and wants to share it, just hop over to Wattpad and pm me. I have the same username! :)  
> \-----------------  
> Voldemort: _$Nagini what is a tank engine?$_  
>  Nagini: _$Nagini does not know master.$_  
>  Voldemort: _$Perhaps it is a compliment on my superior ability in war?$_  
>  Nagini: _$Of course, master! You are the best war leader!$_


	8. Chapter 8

Unsure of how time was passing seemed to become a constant for Harry, as the blank void offered no reliable timestamp. A few days could have passed since Harry last saw Death, but it was just as likely that it had been only a few minutes. After Death’s imparting words, Harry had frozen still, his mind blanking at the implication that he could return to the land of the living. To return to the war… to return to Tom… It wasn’t an idea Harry had entertained, not wanting to be swayed from his mission. But now Death was telling him it was possible? But how?

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry whispered to himself, his voice echoing across the void of nothingness. “What should I do?”

“That is something you must decide for yourself,” came Death’s response. Harry startled, spinning around to see the creepy child-like entity. “I can not choose for you.” 

“I want to see them,” Harry said softly, images of his friends flashing through his mind. “I want to see him…” A barrage of memories filling his mind. Toms smirking face as Harry slipped in the mud. Tom’s peaceful expression as he slept next to Harry. Tom’s heavy gaze, filled with desire and lust. “I just… I don’t want them to be disappointed in me.” 

And wasn’t that the truth. Here Harry was, dead and gone, yet the fears of abandonment and judgment still plagued him. He knew that their opinions of him shouldn’t dictate the things he does, but he was terrified of losing the only family he’d ever had. Beside him, Death hummed in acknowledgment and sank into a seated position, his legs crossed over each other. 

“Disappointment, anger, sadness,” Death said softly. “They’re all so fickle. Here one moment, overpowering everything, gone the next. Even if they are angry, they won’t stay that way. Their love and loyalty for you will always come through.” 

“He must be so upset with me,” Harry whispered, his face closing in with regret. “We parted on such bad terms…” 

“He’s trying to bring you back, you know.” Death said, causing Harry’s head to snap up in shock. He met Death’s neutral expression with wide eyes, his mouth gaping. 

“C-Can he do that?” Harry asked, nervously tugging at his hair. 

“No one can bring back a soul who is unwilling to return.” was Death’s response. 

Death’s response only reminded Harry of their earlier conversation. “Is that what you meant?” he asks suddenly, letting his green eyes drift from Death’s indifferent expression to the reflection of himself on the ground. “When you said I could decide?” 

“Yes,” Death simply says. “You have the choice as my Master—”

“As your _what_?!” Harry cried, his eyes widening as he whipped his head around to stare incredulously at the immortal being disguised as a child. 

“You united my Hallows and greeted me like an old friend,” Death says, tilting his head to the side. “That makes you my Master. Should you choose to return, any time you visit me, you will always have the option to go back.” 

Harry's mouth was wide open, his eyes blinking owlishly at the very thought. He had always assumed that the Master of Death was nothing more than a fairy tale told to children. But apparently, it was real and Harry had somehow managed to accidentally become it. Actually, that seemed pretty on par with the way his life goes. 

“What would you do if you were me?” Harry asks, his mouth slowly closing as his face returns to stare at his reflection on the ground. “Would… Would you stay? Or would you go back?”

Death hummed the same tune, the same eerily familiar tune that both set him at ease and made him hauntingly lonely. “I could never be you, Master,” Death said, hugging his knees to his chest. “I am an immortal being whose very existence outlives all. I’m afraid I am unable to help you in this aspect.” 

“Oh.” Harry said softly, his eyebrows drawn together. 

“But,” Death said, causing Harry to glance at him. Somehow the creepy child had managed to stand up in a matter of seconds, and he now stood over Harry with a neutral expression on his face. “There are some other people who can help.” 

“Other… people…?” Harry asked before he trailed off, his eyes widening impossibly big, his breath stuttering inside his chest when he saw the people standing behind Death. 

She was as beautiful as the pictures Harry had hoarded in his photo album. Harry could remember how, when he was younger, he would stare at the pictures over and over again, memorizing her face and wishing that he could memorize the way she sounded, the way she smelled. Yet when he saw her now, he could see that the pictures did not do her justice. 

How had the pictures missed the tiny splash of freckles on the bridge of her nose? Harry was sure he never saw those before! How had the pictures missed the way the hair around her ears curled ever so slightly from the way she constantly tucked them behind her ears? How had the pictures missed the way her green eyes glimmered like that of an emerald in the sun? 

He drank in the sight of her like a blind man seeing the sun. Her teeth were slightly crooked, but it was endearing. Her ears were pierced and they held tiny pearls. Her arms were outstretched towards him and if Harry weren’t completely frozen, he’d be running into them. 

Running into his _mother’s_ arms. 

“Harry!” she cried, and the sound of her voice—high and twinkly, like that of the sweetest bell—brought tears to his eyes. In the time it took for Harry to blink the blurriness from his vision, his mother had crossed the gap and pulled him into her chest. 

The sudden assault of _safe_ and _warm_ made Harry sob, his hand instantly coming up to clutch at her shoulder with a death-like grip, afraid that if he let go, she’d disappear. She smelled like cinnamon and cookies, and the way she buried her face in Harry’s hair made Harry feel like everything was okay for the first time since he was a baby. 

“ _M-Mom_ ,” Harry wept, his voice hoarse. “ _Mom_!”

“My precious baby,” his mom whispered, her breath tickling his hair. “My sweet, sweet boy. You had to fight for so long. I’m here now, love. Mommy’s here.” 

She trailed her fingers through Harry’s hair, and it reminded him of the way he once saw Aunt Petunia calming Dudley after a nightmare. He remembered how he had a nightmare, back before he realized that his relatives didn’t care about him, how he had told Aunt Petunia hoping she’d comfort him too. He was rewarded with a sharp slap to the top of his head and a demand to go make breakfast. He never went to his Aunt for comfort again. 

Harry trembled under the weight of affection he was receiving, unsure of how he was supposed to deal with it. What was he supposed to do now? How long was it acceptable to remain in his mother’s—his _mother_ was here!—embrace?

He was saved from answering that question by the sound of another voice he’d never heard of, but dreamt of plenty of times. “Alright Lils,” he said, his voice deep and gruff, but just as welcoming as his mother’s. “Don’t hog him. I want to hug my baby, too!”

His mother huffed but obliged, pulling out of the embrace. Harry’s face was red and splotchy, his glasses fogged slightly from the tears. He wiped away the fogginess and residue quickly so that he could see him. Just as his mom, the pictures didn’t do him justice. In the pictures, his father had seemed so childish and care-free, dignified and serious in the older ones. 

Looking at him now, Harry could see that his father held an age-old wariness about him that didn’t take away from the childish delight in his eyes. His father’s eyes were that of a stormy night, greys and blues mixing together to form a vast ocean. His hair had the same signature rat’s nest quality like Harry’s, but on his father, it looked almost professional, while it made Harry look like a scruffy homeless person. 

Harry’s father smiled at him, his face so full of joy and love that it made Harry’s breath hitch once more, and he frantically blinked back tears. “Hello Harry,” he whispered, a rough and calloused hand coming up to cup Harry’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I’ve missed you so much, prongslet.” 

“I missed… I missed y-you so _much_ ,” Harry said, his voice breaking as another wave of tears poured out of his eyes. “So _much_ , Dad, so much.” 

“Oh, prongslet,” his dad whispered, tugging Harry into a hug. Harry was tall enough to bury his face in the side of his dad’s neck, the skin slicking instantly from Harry’s salty tears. His father smelled like broom shiner and rain, and Harry instantly tucked the memory into his mind where it would be safe forever. He never wanted to forget this moment. Never. “It’s okay. It’s over, now. It’s over.” 

Harry jolted when he felt a hand touch his back, a hand that didn’t belong to his father. Harry reluctantly lifted his face from his dad’s neck and turned to see who had touched him. Harry whined wordlessly at the sight of his scruffy godfather looking at him sheepishly. 

“Hey there, prongslet,” Sirius said with a wave of his hand. “I missed you kiddo.” 

“S-Sirius!” Harry said in between sobs. He saw someone out of the corner of his eye, and Harry turned to see Remus, too. “Remus! Padfoot! Moony! Mom! Dad! Y-You’re all… You’re all here!”

“That’s right kiddo, we all came to see you,” his dad said. “We missed you so much.”

“We all couldn’t wait to see you,” his mom said, stepping forward to gently run her hand down Harry’s head. “But I could’ve waited a bit longer. I wish you hadn’t come so soon. I wish your life was a happier one, my sweet boy.” 

“What should I do, Mom?” Harry asked, wiping the last of his tears away. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“Oh baby, that’s okay,” his mother said gently. “You don’t have to know right away. We’re here for you, always.” 

“Love is complicated, prongslet.” Sirius said, causing Harry to freeze. “It’s okay to be confused.”

Harry’s breath stuttered, his mind freezing to a halt before he came to the realization. With a harsh gasp, he tore himself from his father’s arms, the overwhelming feeling of guilt and shame making Harry feel unworthy to stand in his father’s embrace when he was in love with the very person who killed him. Harry wrapped his arms around himself as he took a step back, his eyes searching his family’s faces. 

“Y-You… You know?” Harry asked softly, biting his lip. 

“I had my suspicions that you loved someone,” Sirius says gently, his face showing nothing but love. The sight of it only made Harry more cautious. Where was the disgust? Where was the hatred? “I saw the way you acted and I knew. I just… I didn’t know _who_ it was until after I died…” 

Harry didn’t know what to say. What could he possibly say that would make this better? “I… I’m sorry that I got you killed,” is what he settled on. It was something that Harry had always wanted to tell him. Something that had haunted him for a long time. “I’m so sorry, Padfoot.” 

“Oh, Harry,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “That wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have treated it like a game. I knew Bellatrix was a better dueler than me, but I still fooled around. It was my own fault, not yours. I _never_ blamed you.” 

Harry simply nodded, not wanting to process his godfather’s words. Harry had agonized over Sirius’ death for so long, wondering how things would’ve changed if only Harry learned Occlumency faster. To hear that Sirius didn’t blame him was like a weight off his chest, but he couldn’t fully feel relief until he knew. 

He had to know. 

“Do I…” Harry sucked in a deep breath. “Do I disgust you? For being with him? For loving him?”

Harry watched as his mother and father reared back like they’d been slapped. His mother’s face was horrified, her hand instantly covering her mouth as tears budded in her eyes. She vehemently shook her head, reaching out to hold Harry’s hand with her free one. 

“No!” she cried. “Never! You could never disgust me, sweet boy! Never!” 

“It was a hard pill to swallow,” his dad said with a grimace, making Harry flinch. His mom slapped his arm making his dad quickly continue. “It was a hard pill to swallow _but_ after I got over it, I was happy for you.” 

“I will never be disgusted with you, Prongslet,” Sirius said firmly, his face reflecting his namesake. “You could burn the whole world to the ground and my first question would still be, ‘Are you okay?’” 

“Harry,” Remus whispered softly. “The man we knew and the man you fell in love with are two different people. Please believe me when I say, we love you. We will always love you.” 

Harry sobbed, the harsh cry tearing its way through his grit teeth with such a force that it left Harry reeling. The open acceptance, the love, the gentleness… This wasn’t what he was expecting. This wasn’t what he thought would happen. Harry was prepared to face anger and disappointment, not love and trust. What was he supposed to do now? Harry didn’t know how to handle such care. He wasn’t used to this. 

“Oh, Harry,” his mother cooed, taking Harry back into her arms. “You don’t know how to handle love and it’s something I never wanted for you. You, my precious baby boy, deserve to feel happy. You deserve love. Never think otherwise.” 

“I don’t know what to do, mom,” Harry said. “I can go back to him, but to do that I’d have to leave you. I… I _can’t_ … I can’t lose you again. Not when I just got you back!”

“You will never lose us,” his dad promised. “We will always be right here.” 

“What should I do?” Harry asked. “Should I go back to him? Should I stay here? Please, I need you to tell me what to do!”

“Sweetheart,” his mother said, gently pulling away from the embrace to cup Harry’s cheek. “We will always be here to love and support you. No matter what you choose.”

“Mom—”

“But,” his mother said firmly. “You have to be the one to choose, not us. We can’t make that decision for you.” 

“What if I make the wrong choice?” Harry asked. 

His mother just smiled fondly and shook her head. “You won’t.” 

“I…” Harry frowned, his eyebrows drawing together with confusion. How can she know that? How can she be so sure that Harry will make the right choice when Harry himself doesn’t know what the right choice is?

“I’m afraid, Master,” Death said suddenly, cutting Harry from his thoughts. “That it is time for them to return.” 

“What? Wait, no,” Harry cried, shaking his head. “They just got here!”

“Oh, sweetie, we don’t belong here,” his mother said. “We can only visit for a short time.” 

“But… But I’m not ready…” Harry whispered. “Please. Please, just a little while longer.”

“I wish,” his dad said, gently hugging Harry from behind. “That we could stay here forever. Our souls can’t stay here for an extended amount of time. We can only travel here for a little while before we have to return.” 

“Will you come back?” Harry asked, blinking away the tears. 

“When you need us, Harry, we’ll be here.” Sirius promised, pressing a quick kiss to Harry’s forehead.

“I love you,” Harry cried. “I love you all! I love you guys so much!”

“We know, darling,” his mom said sweetly, kissing the top of his head. “We love you, too.”

“This isn’t goodbye, Harry,” Remus said, smiling gently at him. “This is a ‘see you later’.” 

Harry nodded at them, watching through his tears as Death escorted them through the nothingness until they faded away. Harry stared at the spot they once stood, tears trailing down his face. He was once again standing alone in the nothingness, no one but Death by his side. 

“See you later.” Harry whispered to the void.

“Have you made your choice, Master?” Death asked in his monotone voice. 

“No,” Harry said, his voice hoarse from the crying. “I still don’t know what the right choice is. What should I do?”

“I’m afraid I still can’t help you, Master,” Death said. “However, there is someone else who would like to see you.” 

Harry frowned in confusion. Someone else? But who? Harry couldn’t think of anyone else who’d want to see him. Harry had already seen his family. The only other people Harry could think of were the people who died during the war. Perhaps it was Fred?

But when Harry turned around to see the person, Harry was not greeted with a familiar face. Instead, he was greeted with the sight of a person he’d only seen in a Pensieve. Her hair was thin and lank, a dull brown that hung from her head in clumped strands. Her face was pale and sunken in, her dark brown eyes set deeply in her face, with one lame eye looking towards the left. Her chin was crooked, the top of her jaw sticking out on one end, sunken on the other. 

She smiled at him warmly, her good eye sparkling with joy, her teeth crooked and yellowed. She walked towards him with a limp, and it drew Harry’s attention to the way her right leg was slightly shorter than her left. 

“Hello Harry.” she greeted, her voice gravelly. 

Harry stared at her in confusion. “Hello, Merope.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
| _1995_ |  
They were talking about it again, and Harry wanted to bury his face in his pillow and scream. Harry couldn’t believe he had let his guard down like that. It was the stupid letters! Harry had meant for the letters to simply put Voldemort in his place, but somehow it had grown out of hand. It went from a few letters to trading witty conversations with the man every week. 

When Voldemort mentioned he was feeling lonely again, Harry didn’t realize that the man intended to stalk him on his first Hogsmeade trip and intended to kidnap him! Though, in hindsight, he really should have figured, after all, kidnapping Harry and torturing people seemed to be the only things the Dark Lord did for fun. 

And what was Harry thinking?! Bandaging his wounds?! Kneeling in between his legs?! Merlin, he practically enabled the man! Harry blushed as he remembered the way Voldemort had cupped his face, his crimson eyes dark and heady as he mentioned Harry’s upcoming sixteenth birthday. Harry remembered the way his heart had stopped in his chest when he met Voldemort’s heavy gaze. The way his hands trembled under the weight of the man’s desire. The way he was _so close_ to forgetting himself and just leaning in—

“Harry? Are you okay? Your face is really red.” Harry jumped, his attention instantly being brought back to the present. He was currently sitting in the Great Hall where both Hermione and Ron were looking at him with concern. 

“Hmm?” Harry asked, forcing his previous, traitorous thoughts out of his mind. “What’s happening?”

“We were just talking about Professor Umbridge,” Hermione said, her face drawn in a frown. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Harry said quickly. “What about her?”

“What about her? Mate, are you blind! What else could we be talking about?!” Ron cried, a bit of his food spraying out of his mouth. Hermione grimaced. 

“Oh. Her face. Right.” Harry said softly, his gaze returning to his plate where he’d been pushing around the food for the past twenty minutes. That was another thing. After Harry’s lapse in judgment—when he told Voldemort who had scarred his hand—Voldemort had somehow managed to carve the words ‘I am a Child Abuser’ into the professor’s forehead. It was gruesome and clearly painful, and as much as Harry hated the woman, he didn’t think she deserved that. 

Everyone had been in an uproar when it happened, theories about what happened flying throughout the castle. No one knew how she got it, and even the teachers were stumped. Harry heard that nothing would make it go away, and nothing could cover it up. Every day she walked in and the words looked just as fresh as the day before. Harry knew that there were investigations going on, but Umbridge was incredibly tight-lipped about what happened to her. Then again, how could she possibly say that Voldemort, the very person whose existent she’d been vehemently denying, had carved those words into her head. 

He also knew that investigations into the claim of abuse were also going on, something that had caused the toad-like woman to cry out with offense in the middle of the Great Hall. Even though he disagreed with Voldemort’s methods, he was grateful that she was being investigated. It took only three days for the Aurors to find out about the Blood Quills, and she was promptly removed from her position in Hogwarts, trial pending. 

The DADA was temporarily being taught by Dumbledore, who still refused to give Harry any attention. Harry didn’t mind much, though, as it was much easier to pretend he wasn’t betraying everyone’s trust by speaking with the Dark Lord when Dumbledore avoided him. 

Speaking of… 

“Harry, look! Your secret admirer is back!” Ron said, sarcastically batting his eyes at Harry. Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes at Ron’s joking tone. His friends had taken to calling Voldemort his ‘secret admirer’—the irony of the quip was not lost on him—as Voldemort constantly sent him letters. “Are you actually going to respond this time?”

Harry hadn’t responded to any of Voldemort’s letters since he mutilated Umbridge’s face. As stupid as it sounded, Harry felt betrayed by the way Voldemort went back on his promise. Harry told Voldemort what he wanted on the stipulation that the man promise not to hurt her. When Harry saw Umbridge’s face, he knew instantly who had been responsible. 

It had been two weeks since Harry sent his bitter letter, and ever since then, Harry had not responded to a single letter Voldemort sent him. He still opened and read them, but he never sent a letter back. He knew the lack of response from Harry was starting to get to the man, such was evident by the way Voldemort frantically begged for a response, and when that didn’t work, returned to threats of bodily harm to random people. 

“Probably not,” Harry said with a sigh, taking the offered letter from the bird before shooing it away. “I’m hoping they’ll get the hint.” 

“What? Lovers quarrel, or something?” Ron said with a laugh. Harry scowled. 

“We’re not… that’s not…. It’s not like that, Ron!” Harry cried, shaking his head. “Seriously, it’s nothing.” 

“Whatever you say, lover boy—” Ron said with a smirk, only for his smirk to drop off his face when Harry stood. “Wait, I was just kidding! Mate, come back!”

But Harry was already gone. Perhaps he should have stayed, but Harry didn’t want to hear another ‘lover’ joke from Ron today. Storming out of the Great Hall was starting to become the norm, something Harry wasn’t sure he liked. 

As he walked towards the common room, Harry opened the letter Voldemort had sent him. _Dearest_ , it read. _Please answer me. I’m starting to get very worried, and I’m not sure how long I can last before I storm Hogwarts to find you. I don’t care what Dumbledore will do, nor do I care what the prophecy says. You are mine and I need you. Answer me._

The letter had the same urgency as the others, but this time there was something different about it. Harry had frowned, standing still in the middle of the hallway as he reread the last few sentences. “Prophecy…?” he whispered, his eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “What…?” 

Harry had resolved to never answer Voldemort’s letters again, refusing to allow himself to fall into the dangerous trap of believing Voldemort is a better person than he is, based on the way he treats Harry. However, Harry knew that his curiosity was going to get the better of him in this because Harry wanted to know what Voldemort meant by ‘prophecy’. 

That didn’t mean, however, Harry thought with a smirk, that he couldn’t make the letter as annoying as possible.  


* * *

  
_My darling Harry,_

_I was so grateful to see your letter, you have no idea. When I saw your majestic owl fly through my window, it was like my heart had stopped. I was so happy to hear from you, my love, that I didn’t even care that you addressed me as ‘Butt-Head’. (Although, such childish insults are above you, my dear.)_

_Now, I do worry about you, my dear. My spies tell me you’ve gotten thinner. Have you been eating properly? You really must take care of yourself. Did my punishment towards that foul toad really offend you that much? I apologize for hurting you, Harry, that was never my intention. I merely wanted you to be safe._

_As for your questions, of course, I’ll answer them for you. Although, I was quite surprised to find out that you didn’t know about the prophecy. What has Dumbledore been telling you? The prophecy in question is a prophecy foretold in 1980 about a savior who would defeat me._

_I’m afraid that I only heard the first few lines which stated, “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.” That is all I know of the prophecy._

_I do know that the prophecy is kept in the Department of Mysteries, and given that you are one of the people the prophecy spoke of, you are able to touch it and hear it. I’m afraid that’s all the information I can give you one the prophecy, though I am currently making a plan to get it._

_Now that we have resumed our correspondence, tell me, my love, how are you doing? Are you as lonely as I am? I do miss your laughter. One of these days I swear I am going to take you and never give you back, I miss you so much._

_Yours, forever and always,  
Voldemort_  


* * *

  
The letter from Voldemort was about as helpful as Harry assumed it would be, and despite exchanging several more letters after that, there weren’t any mentions of the prophecy. The thought that a prophecy was made about him sent shivers down Harry’s spine. He could recall on one hand the number of times Trelawney had predicted his death, and though he didn’t really believe in seers, this was different. 

If what Voldemort said was true, then the real reason Voldemort attacked his parents that night and tried to kill him was because of some prophecy! Harry needed to know the truth, he needed answers! 

Harry would’ve asked Dumbledore, but the headmaster was still avoiding Harry like the plague. It was a bit off-putting, to be honest. Harry had managed to care for the Headmaster like a grandfather of sorts, and to have him avoid Harry made his chest clench. Harry didn’t even know what he did. 

(Harry hoped that it wasn’t because Dumbledore had somehow found out about his relationship with Voldemort. _Not_ that there was a relationship, of course. Just a creepy stalker harassing his stalkee.) 

After another two weeks of unsated curiosity, Harry decided to take action for himself. 

It wasn’t that difficult to sneak out of Hogwarts in the middle of the night—he’d done it hundreds of times before. Just an invisibility cloak, the Marauder's Map, and Harry was gone. Harry knew that no one was staying in the DADA’s office, as there wasn’t a teacher there currently. Harry carefully avoided Filch, and within minutes, he was standing in front of the floo in the empty office, a determined grin on his face. 

“Ministry of Magic.” he said in a clear voice, throwing the floo powder into the fire. 

The Ministry was just as he remembered, and he cautiously wrapped the cloak tighter around himself as he walked through the empty halls. It was odd to see everything so empty, no wizards walking the halls of the building, but Harry knew it was very late so it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise to find everyone’s gone home. 

It was surprisingly easy to get into the Department of Mysteries, something that Harry honestly worried about. There was practically no security and Harry was a little disappointed. This was how the Ministry guarded their things? No wonder they had to wait for a baby to get rid of a Dark Lord for them. 

Harry knew instantly when he arrived in the prophecy room, as shelves full of dusty glass orbs lined the room as far as the eye could see. He took one look at the towering shelves and let out a sigh. “Figures.” he muttered. 

Harry wanted to be back in the castle as soon as possible to avoid anyone finding out he left in the first place, but he didn’t want to risk using magic in the room and drawing attention to it. He knew from his letters with Voldemort that only the people who were a part of the prophecy could touch the orb with their bare hands, and Harry wasn’t sure how the prophecy would hold up to a summoning charm. 

Harry began the tedious task of looking through the shelves—miraculously labeled by date and seer—in search of the prophecy. Harry wasn’t exactly sure how long he’d been searching through the shelves, but when he finally found it, Harry was practically stumbling with exhaustion. 

“This is it?” Harry asked himself, wiping the dust from the orb labeled, _S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D, Dark Lord and (?)_ with Harry’s name hastily scribbled down in red ink. He lifted the tiny orb from its pedestal and held it up to his face. “This tiny thing is the reason my life was ruined?” 

“You would make a mockery of such an honor,” came a sarcastic drawl behind him. Harry startled and whipped around, his hand flying instinctively towards his wand. Standing behind him and leveling him with the most bored glare was Lucius Malfoy. “Give me the prophecy, Potter.”

“Wha—How did you know I was here?” Harry asked, his fingers trembling. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid! He let his guard down, and his invisibility cloak had fallen from his shoulder, revealing the upper half of his torso. 

“Don’t be daft, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “Do you really think there wouldn’t be any alarms guarding this place?”

“I didn’t hear any alarms.” Harry said dumbly. 

Malfoy scoffed. “You really _are_ that stupid,” he said with a dignified roll of his eyes. “Now. Give me the prophecy Potter, my Lord will be quite pleased when I give him both the prophecy and you.” 

Yes, Voldemort would be quite pleased to have Harry at his side. Though, not for the reason Malfoy was thinking. “Not a chance, Malfoy!” Harry snarled, throwing a stunner at the man before he had the chance to reply. As Malfoy dodged, Harry turned around and sprinted towards the exit, his heart pounding. 

All he had to do was make it back to the floo. Once he was in Hogwarts, there was nothing Malfoy could do to stop him. Harry ran, his breaths coming out in sharp pants, only for the crack of apparition to startle him into stumbling. Harry looked back and his heart dropped. 

Death Eaters were apparating directly into the Ministry!

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Harry shouted, no longer caring if he was heard. This night just keeps getting better. An image of Voldemort scolding him for his language flashed into his head, and Harry couldn’t stop the hysterical giggle that bubbled up in his chest. 

In his distraction, Harry didn’t notice the spell flying towards him until it was too late. A wave of pain coursed through him as the spell sent him flying through the air. He hit the wall with a loud thud, the air being knocked from his lungs as he collapsed to the ground. Harry gasped for air, his fingers trembling as they clutched the prophecy orb tight to his chest. 

“Aww,” came a psychotic coo. “Ickle Harrykins have a boo-boo?” 

Harry looked up to see a woman in a torn and tattered black dress stare down at him with crazy eyes. Her hair was curly and matted, flying around her head with each motion. She reminded him of Sirius for a moment, and Harry instantly connected her with the picture in Prophet from a few months ago. 

Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius’ crazy cousin who escaped from Azkaban, was standing over him with a wand pointed at his heart. 

“Shit.” 

Bellatrix threw her head back in a cackle. “You’re a cutie-pie,” she said in a deranged whisper. “Now, give me the prophecy and I promise I’ll make you suffer.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to promise I _won’t_ suffer?” Harry asked, licking his lips nervously. 

“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. 

Harry, who apparently had a filter problem because he couldn’t stop talking, merely said, “You’re supposed to promise I won’t suffer. Not the other way around.” 

“But I want to make you suffer,” Bellatrix pouted. “Give it to me! _Crucio_!”

Whatever retort Harry had been about to say was lost under the unbearable agony that followed. Words could not describe the pain that followed the spell. It felt like thousands of white-hot pokers were being slowly and torturously stabbed through his body, each one more painful than the next. It was never-ending and that was all Harry wanted. He wanted it to stop. He _needed_ it to stop. Please, please, please. Death would be better than this. 

Let him die, let him die, let him _die_ —

And then it was over, and Harry was gasping for air as his body spasmed. His nerves were fried, and Hary could feel his body trying to fix itself as he shuddered against the cool, stone floor of the Ministry. He couldn’t control his body and try as he might, he couldn’t get his body to respond. He needed to stand up and fight, but he couldn’t move, helpless to the spasms. He thought he could hear someone calling his name, but his ears were ringing too loudly. 

“—rry? Harry? HARRY!” 

“Oh god, is he okay? The screams…” 

“Focus, Hermione!”

“Harry, please, I need you to answer me,” Harry finally felt control return to his body and he looked up to see Tonks hovering over his body. “There you are. Wotcher, Harry.” 

“Mpf,” Harry muttered, and he grimaced at the taste of blood in his mouth. He shakily leaned his head to the side and spat it out. “Tonks? How did you get here?”

“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” Hermione cried, drawing Harry’s attention. “Ron said you were missing and then we went to Dumbledore and he heard the Ministry was being attacked and—”

“‘MIONE MOVE!” Ron cried, tugging the girl to the ground just in time for a spell to go hurtling over her head. “Merlin, we can talk later! We’re in the middle of a battle!”

Harry could finally hear above the ringing now, and he looked around to see Order members fighting against the masked Death Eaters, wreaking havoc all around the room. He frowned in confusion. He didn’t recognize the room he was in, but he supposed the spell Bellatrix hit him with must have sent him flying into another room. Instead of the Hall of Prophecies, the battle was happening in a strange black room, an arch with a curtain standing in the center of a raised platform. 

“What… What happened?” Harry asked, struggling to stand. 

“We found you being held under the _cruciatus_ ,” Tonks whispered. “I threw up a shield spell and Sirius attacked Bellatrix. They’re dueling over there. C’mon Harry, we need to get you out of here. The Order is holding them off, but we can’t afford to sit here any longer.” 

Harry nodded, rising to his feet and leaning heavily against Tonks when his knees buckled. In his hand was the prophecy, his hands gripping it so tightly, Harry could see the outlines of his knuckles. Tonks handed Harry off to Hermione and Ron so that she could protect them from any spells as they made their way towards the exit. 

“There’s Potter!” someone shouted, and suddenly Tonks’ shield was being blasted by more spells than she could handle. 

“Gah!” she cried. “I can’t hold… it for much… longer! You need to go! Now!”

“Are you running so soon? Come and play with me, ickle Harrykins!” Bellatrix cried, a manic grin spreading over her face as she shot spell after spell towards both Tonks and Sirius. 

“Stay away from my godson, you bitch!” Sirius screamed, forcing Bellatrix’s attention back on Sirius. 

“You think you can beat me, dear cousin?” Bellatrix taunted, spinning out of the way of another spell. “You don’t have what it takes.” 

Sirius screamed, throwing himself forward in a lunge as he tried to grab Bellatrix. Bellatrix cackled and spun around, using Sirius’ momentum against him, grabbing him by the wrist and kicking him in the back so that he went flying forwards, landing only inches away from the strange arch. 

“You know what I love about this room, Sirius?” Bellatrix asked with a grin. “The veil. They say it’s a tear through our world and the next. No one who's gone in has ever come out. Would you like to test it, cousin?”

Harry watched with horror as Sirius’ shield failed, and Bellatrix slammed her heeled boot into Sirius’ chest, sending him flying backward through the veil. “SIRIUS!” Harry screamed, lunging forward, only to have Ron and Hermione drag him back. “NOOOOOO!”

“Harry! We have to go!” Ron cried, tugging on his arm. 

“SIRIUS!” Harry continued to scream, clawing at the arm that was stopping him from attacking Bellatrix. “SIRIUS!”

“Harry! Please! We have to _go_!” Hermione cried, using all her strength to pull Harry out of the room. “Please, we need to leave! We have to go!”

Harry didn’t know how it got so messed up so fast. This wasn’t supposed to happen! No one was supposed to know he was here! It was supposed to be a quick, in and out mission. How did it go so wrong so fast? 

He ran with Ron and Hermione numbly, feeling achingly empty and hollow. Sirius was gone. His godfather was dead and it was all Harry’s fault. He was the one to blame. “Sirius,” Harry whispered, tears blurring his vision as he ran. “I’m so sorry!”

The trio stumbled into the entry hall where all the floos were lined up against the wall. Harry ducked as a stray spell hit the ceiling and rubble and debris rained over them. The Death Eaters were rushing into the room, each one shouting and aiming at Harry. The Order members held them off best they could, but Harry knew they would be overtaken soon. 

Hermione screamed when a spell hit her in the back, causing her to fall to the ground with a loud thud. Ron let out a cry and rushed to help her, but in his distraction, missed another spell that threw Ron to the wall. Harry stood, his wand ready and aimed at the masked Death Eater that had separated the trio, a stunner on the tip of his tongue, only for a familiar magical signature to wash over him. 

Everyone in the room felt it when he arrived, the Death Eaters falling to the ground in a bow and the Order members tensing with fear. Harry looked behind him to see the very man he’d been avoiding standing there with a mask of indifference on his face. 

“ _T-Tom_ ,” Harry whispered, a mixture of emotions welling up in him at the sight of the man. 

Voldemort’s crimson eyes landed on Harry, and Harry could see them soften for a second before the mask returned. “Harry Potter,” he said with a dangerous drawl. The voice put Harry on edge, and he grit his teeth. “I believe you have something of mine.” 

“What—” 

_$Listen very carefully, dearest,$_ Voldemort hissed, and Harry’s eyes widened when he realized what Voldemort was doing. _$I am going to throw a spell and you are going to dodge. The spell will create the cover you need to escape. Do you understand?$_

Voldemort was… helping him escape? Huh. Well, it’s not like this is the most surprising thing the man has done for him. Harry subtly nodded his head, his face set in a determined scowl. Just as Voldemort raised his wand, however, the floo flashed and hundreds of Aurors entered the room being led by none other than Dumbledore. 

“It’s okay, Harry,” Dumbledore said to him, causing Harry’s eyes to widen at being addressed for the first time in a while. “Everything will be okay.” 

“Dumbledore,” Voldemort hissed, his rage lacing his words. “Your death will be as satisfying as the boy’s!” Voldemort then turned to look at Harry. _$New plan. Escape while I distract everyone with my duel.$_

Harry’s mouth gaped open at the sight of Dumbledore and Voldemort dueling, and a quick glance around showed him that everyone else was in a similar state of awe. Harry took the offered chance and ran over to where Hermione lay, helping her up with a grimace. Hermione and Harry found Ron leaning against the wall by the floos, and together the three of them made their way to the fire. 

Harry risked a glance back just in time to see the Aurors come to their senses and rush towards Voldemort. Voldemort let out a cry of rage before he demanded his Death Eaters retreat. Voldemort and Harry’s gaze met for a brief second, a hungry, possessive look in his eyes, before Voldemort apparated away, leaving no one but Aurors and Order Members in the building. 

With the fight over, Dumbledore made his way over to the trio, a grim look on his face. “Harry,” he said in a remorseful whisper. “Please. You must come with me.” 

Harry let out a bitter scoff. “Oh, so now you want to talk to me?” he snapped. 

“I’m so sorry for avoiding you, my boy,” Dumbledore looked pained. “I promise I will explain everything. Please, just follow me.” 

The following conversation left Harry more drained than he thought was possible. He just wanted this entire night to be over. Finding out the prophecy stated that only he could kill Voldemort made Harry’s heart sink with guilt. Finding out that everything that had happened to him was because of some stupid prophecy, one that Voldemort didn’t even know fully, filled him with rage. 

“The only question I have for you, my boy,” Dumbledore said softly, leaning against the chair. In the safety of Dumbledore’s office, Harry was free to tell Dumbledore everything. A part of him wanted to. “Is what were you doing at the Ministry?”

Harry opened his mouth, ready to spill everything. “I… It was…” 

“Please, Harry, I know you’re exhausted and grief-stricken, but I need to know the truth.” Dumbledore said, leaning forward, bracing his arms against the desk. 

“I just felt like I needed to be there,” Harry lied, his eyes widening at the words. He wasn’t sure what made him uneasy about sharing the truth with Dumbledore, but for some reason, the thought of telling Dumbledore made Harry’s stomach spin with knots. “It was like a pull. I needed to be there. No one else was supposed to be there, no one was supposed to get hurt… No one…” 

“Yes, Sirius Black’s death is a grave tragedy.” was Dumbledore’s grim response. 

Suddenly, all Harry could feel was rage. “Sirius wouldn’t have died if I knew about this earlier.” he said in a cool voice. Dumbledore looked up with shock at Harry’s tone. 

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry—”

“SORRY DOESN'T BRING HIM BACK!” Harry screamed, the tears that he’d been holding back poured down his face. “HE’S GONE! HE’S GONE AND HE’S NOT COMING BACK!” 

His magic swarmed up inside of him, the rage and grief choking him. With a sudden burst, Harry’s magic lashed out and destroyed the room. Harry couldn’t hear the shatters of glass and cracks of wood breaking over the sound of himself sobbing. 

“HARRY!” Dumbledore cried, his hand reaching forward to pat his shoulder. 

Harry knocked Dumbledore’s hand off him. “Sirius is gone,” Harry whispered, his voice breaking. “I have to live with his death on my hands for the rest of my life. I… I got my godfather _killed_.”

“Harry—” 

Suddenly, Harry couldn’t breathe. He stood, his feet knocking some of the debris as he stumbled to the door, ignoring Dumbledore’s protests. Harry slammed the door open and ran, his vision blurred as tears poured down his face. Harsh gasps tore themselves from Harry’s mouth as he struggled to breathe. 

Harry let out a cry when he suddenly slipped, the tears obscuring his vision and allowing him to trip over a rock and fall down the last few steps. He landed on the ground with a painful thud, and the pain brought Harry back to the present. 

He was sitting in front of the stairs in an empty hallway of Hogwarts. Harry had run to the Ministry and stolen a prophecy which resulted in a battle. Harry had been tortured. Harry lost Sirius. 

Sirius was _dead_. 

Harry bowed his head and buried them in his knees, hugging his legs tight to his chest and wept.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry stared at her with surprise, his eyes wide. “H-Hello?” he repeated when Merope said nothing. “W-What are you…?” 

Merope smiled at him, stepping forward a bit so that she could awkwardly sit down next to Harry. Harry stared down at her for a moment before he followed, sitting down on the ground with crossed legs. “I came here to thank you,” she said. “I am so grateful for you, Harry Potter.” 

“Me?” Harry asked incredulously. “Why me?” 

“You did for my boy what I wished I could’ve done,” she said. “You loved my son, Hary. That’s all I ever wanted for him.” 

“Er…” 

“It was my biggest regret,” she admitted softly. “Not being able to stay. Not being able to love him the way he needed. I will always love my son, Harry, make no mistake, but my precious Tom doesn’t know how much I love him.” 

Merope was staring at her reflection with a bittersweet smile on her face. She continued to speak, her voice tinged with melancholy. “I never should have done what I did, I know,” she said. “What I did was wrong, but I can’t regret it. If I hadn’t, I never would have had Tom.” 

“You drugged his father,” Harry said, and though his voice held no sign of disapproval, Harry knew that his anger showed on his face. “You robbed him of his free will.” 

“I know what I did was horrible,” Merope nodded. “I hate myself for what I did to that poor man. He didn’t deserve that. It just… It took me a little while to realize. Once I was pregnant I started thinking. ‘My baby will be so beautiful,’ is what I said to myself. ‘They’ll be so beautiful and everyone will want them.’ But I thought, what if someone did to my baby what I was doing to Tom?

“The very idea made me sick to my stomach,” Merope said, looking at Harry with tearful eyes. “I realized then that Tom’s mother probably felt the same way. Then I thought about how Tom must feel. I stopped dosing him after that. I knew deep down that he would never stay, not even for the baby but… I guess a part of me hoped that my baby would have their father.” 

“I’m sorry you had to do it alone,” Harry said softly. And even though he hated Merope for what she did, he truly did feel bad for her. Her life was miserable, and though it didn’t give her the right to do what she did, Harry could understand the desire to be loved by someone. “It must have been difficult.” 

“It was,” Merope nodded. “Especially when I realized I wouldn’t survive the pregnancy. I wept for days when I realized my precious child would be all alone in the world.” 

Harry nodded. “I’m sorry.” 

“After I died,” Merope said softly. “I decided to stick around and watch after my baby. I watched him grow up in that awful orphanage, all alone, thinking nobody loved him. I watched him become bitter and hateful and full of anger. It broke my heart because even after all the terrible things he did, all I could see was that little baby crying out for someone to love him. 

“But then he changed,” Merope said, looking at Harry with a gentle smile. “ _You_ changed him. You gave him the one thing he needed and he became better. He changed for the better and for that I am eternally grateful.” 

“I didn’t really…” 

“Yes, you did,” Merope said. “You loved him and Tom changed. He would have been too far gone without you.” 

Harry just smiled. “Even after everything he did… He changed me too, I think,” Harry said. “We changed each other.” 

“Without you,” Merope said, her voice changing from happy to grim. “He’ll go back.” 

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, leaning forward, his face furrowed with confusion. 

“I know that it is selfish of me to ask,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “I beg you, forgive me for asking, but I beg you. Please, go back to him. Love him the way you do. Don’t let him go back to the man he used to be.” 

“He wouldn’t,” Harry said, shaking his head. “We made plans! He knows what to do. He can do it without me.” 

Merope just smiled at him sadly. “You truly have no idea, do you? Just how much you changed him?”

“He still does bad things,” Harry pointed out. “He just doesn’t do them to me.” 

“He wanted to be worthy of you,” Merope said. “So he changed. His plans, his allies, his punishments. Everything. He changed for you. Without you there, why should he stay on that path?”

“He wouldn’t…” Harry whispered, but he was starting to doubt himself. 

Merope smiled at him. “See for yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! (This was so long, wow!) Were you expecting to see Merope? Hehehe  
> \------------------  
> Voldemort: *sees Hedwig for the first time in two weeks*  
> Voldemort: My love has finally written back!  
> Voldemort: *sees the name addressed on the letter*  
> Voldemort: ...  
> Voldemort: Butt-Head? Really?


	9. Chapter 9

Voldemort was frozen, his crimson eyes wide as they stared uncomprehendingly at the letter sitting on the pillow. It was impossible… How could Harry have left a letter? This cottage was a secret! He stepped forward cautiously, his eyes darting around to see if it was a trap or something. He was half expecting someone to jump out at him from behind the shadows. 

His fingers trembled as they touched the letter, the rough parchment scratching gently against his fingertip. He lifted it, his yes hungrily taking in the letter that his dead lover had left for him. He brought it up to his face, taking in a deep inhale that brought tears to his eyes. 

It still smelled like him. 

He slowly sank to the floor as his knees gave out underneath him. He rested his back against the bed frame, slowly hugging his knees to his chest as he stared at the letter. The pose he was in was so uncouth, something that he’d never do in front of someone, but that didn’t matter did it? Voldemort was alone here, trapped with his loneliness in the remains of his dream. 

It took Voldemort a frighteningly long time to gain the courage to open the letter. He wanted to see what Harry had to say for himself—what Harry could say that would possibly justify running away from him. Hunting down pieces of himself. He wanted to know… But he was terrified to read the letter and discover that Harry had never loved him. 

(The thought had plagued Voldemort for a very long time, only cemented when Harry ran from him and began his Horcrux hunt.) 

Voldemort sucked in a deep breath and shakily breathed out before he flipped the letter over, the red wax seal staring up at him. The wax and seal was one Voldemort recognized, it was a gift for Harry that Voldemort had planned to give him after the war. It had just been sitting in Voldemort’s office collecting dust. When did Harry write this? When did he have the time? 

Voldemort broke the seal carefully, hesitant to rip the precious letter. As he unfolded the parchment, more of Harry’s unique scent wafted up to him, torturing him with it’s comfort and familiarity, a scent that Voldemort might never smell again. 

His fingers traced the dried ink on the letter, not reading it, just feeling the indents in the parchment where Harry’s quill had dug in hard enough to leave impressions. He smiled sadly when he saw small blobs of ink on the parchment. Harry never learned how to properly write with a quill, and it showed. 

Taking another steadying breath, Voldemort let his eyes travel to the top of the letter and began to read. 

_My Tom,_

_I’m afraid I don’t really know what to say here. I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table for almost twenty minutes trying to figure out what to say to you. There is so much I need to tell you, so much you need to know. So much you_ deserve _to know. I don’t know where to start._

_I suppose I’ll start with an apology. Tom, my love, I’m sorry for running. I was angry, and hurt but mostly I was afraid_. 

Voldemort’s breath hitched when he read that, the idea that Harry was afraid of him made his stomach churn. Tears were steadily pooling in his eyes, making his vision blurry, but Voldemort was so sick of crying, he wiped them away before they had the chance to fall. 

_I was afraid, but not of you. I was afraid for you. I suppose I should explain. Do you recall Dumbledore giving me those private lessons? We got into a fight about it, and it ended with us making love for the first time. I told you about the lessons, but I didn’t tell you everything._

_The truth is, Dumbledore told me about your Horcruxes. By the time you read this, I imagine you already know that I’ve been hunting all your Horcruxes down and destroying them. You’re probably very angry with me, probably hurt, but you must know the reason why I am doing this. It’s not what you think._

_I’m writing this two weeks after our encounter in the alley. You have no idea how badly I wanted to succumb, Tom. How badly I wanted to just give up and return with you to our home. Back to the bed. Back to your arms._

Voldemort choked back a sob, angry at the overwhelming grief that plagued him. How could Harry do this to him? How could Harry be so cruel? To leave him, play with him and then die, leaving behind only a letter that taunted Voldemort for his mistakes and lost chances. 

_Instead of going home with you, I ran back to the tent. I went through the motions of getting ready for bed, eating what meager food we had, talking by the fire with Hermione. I did everything that I usually did in the evening, but everything was wrong. I felt empty._

_That’s when I realized. It hit me just as I was about to fall asleep, and it kept me up all night. I never did tell you, did I? I thought I had, at least once, but as I lay there sleeping I realized that not once had I said how I truly felt about you. So instead, I’m writing it down for you to read._

_Tom Marvolo Riddle, I love you._

Voldemort froze, his heart stuttering in his chest at the line. He swallowed dryly a couple of times, his eyes hungrily going over the line over and over again, memorizing it and storing it with the rest of his precious memories. Harry had never said those words to him. 

_It’s because I love you that I am doing this. I’m not hunting down your Horcruxes because I want to defeat you, nor am I doing this because it will make the Light stronger. I realized in one of my final lessons with Dumbledore that the man I was falling in love with, the one who claimed to love me was broken._

_I remember going back to my dorm room and sobbing in the shower when I realized that sad, lonely child grew up and turned to self-mutilation out of a paranoia grown from trauma. The thought that you were hurting so bad that you willingly_ tore your soul to pieces _just so you wouldn’t have to feel it anymore, broke my heart._

_Do you even remember what it felt like to be whole, Tom?_

_I can feel your magic crying out whenever it reaches me. I know that you love my magic because it feels amazing to you, but do you know what your magic feels like to me? It feels broken. It feels like it's in agony. Every brush of your magic makes me want to wrap it up and keep it safe where it can never be hurt again._

_I’m hunting down your Horcruxes—pieces of your soul—not so that you will be weaker, but so that you can finally be whole again. I want to be with you,_ all of you _. I want to be with you while you’re whole and no longer in pain._ That _is why I am destroying the containers; so that your soul can finally heal._

_I found the cottage of our dreams while I was on the run. Hermione says we can’t stay long because you might come back for it, but for the past day, I have sat at the kitchen table, laid on the master bed, fed the chickens, and tended to the garden. This is our home, and I can’t wait for the war to be over so we can finally live our lives together here in peace._

_Hopefully, by the time you read this letter, the war will be over and you will be whole. I officially accept your courtship, and when the war is over, I expect a beautiful proposal that will bring tears to my eyes._

_All my love, forever and always yours,  
Harry_

_P.S. How do you feel about the name ‘Milo’ for a chicken?_

Voldemort sat on the floor of the bedroom numbly, tears flowing down his expressionless face. The letter felt cold in his hand, and he absently wondered if he was going into shock. Harry didn’t leave because he didn’t love Voldemort anymore. Harry left because he loved Voldemort enough to want to fix him.

Harry must have written this letter before he found out he was a Horcrux, which explained why Harry spoke about what he wanted to do after the war was over. To learn that Harry wanted to marry Voldemort after the war sent a crushing feeling of bitter grief through him. 

Why couldn’t Harry decide that before he left? Harry would still be alive if he hadn’t decided to go on a self-righteous trip and try to fix him. They would be getting married right now, getting ready to spend the rest of their lives together in their cottage in the meadow. 

Instead, Harry was dead and Voldemort was whole, yet he never felt more empty. 

Voldemort let the letter from Harry fall to the floor, the parchment landing on the ground with a soft clatter. He pulled his knees tight to his chest and covered his face with his hands and began to weep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
| _1995_ |  
Harry was numb as tended to Aunt Petunia's garden. The numb feeling set in when Harry woke up the day after Sirius’ death, dried tear tracks leaving his face itchy. He woke up and felt nothing. It persisted even after he left Hogwarts and returned to Privet Drive. Without Sirius there to protect him, the Dursleys were worse than usual, and though they never hit him or took food away, Harry was being worked to the bone. He didn’t really mind it, though, as it kept him busy. 

He wished the busyness would help him sleep, but even the bone-deep exhaustion he felt every night couldn’t get rid of the nightmares. The guilt of Sirius’ death kept him up at night, the dark bags under his eyes showing the world just how tired he was.

Harry slowly moves the dirt over the flower seeds, his trowel making a loud clunk when it hit a stone. With a sigh, Harry grabbed the rock, intent on throwing it out of the way, only for the familiar disorienting feeling of a portkey to overtake him. With a strong pull to his navel, Harry closed his eyes against the spinning sensation, only opening them when it was over. 

When he opens his eyes, it's to see a familiar bedroom. Sitting in the armchair by the bed is Voldemort, and when Harry sees the man sitting there so casually, the ever-persisting numbness melts away, and in its place; fury. 

Harry hurls the rock at Voldemort with all his strength, an angry cry escaping him. It hits Voldemort square in the chest before it bounces off and falls to the floor. “HOW DARE YOU?!” Harry screams, his emerald eyes alight with anger. “YOU CAN’T KEEP DOING THIS!” 

Voldemort says nothing as Harry screams at him, and that only serves to make him angrier. He stomps over to the Dark Lord, his face turning red with rage, and begins to pound on the man’s chest. 

“You monster! You killed my parents!” Harry screams. “You kill people and you hurt people! Why do you keep doing this?! Just leave me alone!” 

Harry looks up to see Voldemort staring down at him, a completely blank expression on his face. The sight of Voldemort being so calm in the face of Harry’s fury only serves to make Harry even more enraged. 

“Why can’t you just take a hint?!” he cried. “I don’t want you! Just leave me alone! Stop doing this, okay! Just stop it! People get hurt when I’m around you and I… and I…” Harry sniffs, fighting back the humiliating wave of tears that threaten to pour down his face. Harry hasn’t cried since the night Sirius died, and there was no way in hell Harry was going to break down in front of Voldemort. “I don’t want you! Why do you keep bothering me? Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Harry says miserably, all the fight bleeding out of him. 

Harry slumps forward, sniffling, and he raises his hand to cover his mouth as he stares at the floor. He trembles as he stares at the ground, his vision blurring as he chokes back a sob. “Why?” he whispers. “Why, why, why….?” He doesn’t know who he is asking the question to anymore. 

Finally, Voldemort moves, the sudden shift startling Harry into stumbling backward. He stands up and begins walking over to where Harry stands, his footsteps sound deafening in the silent room. Harry looks up at him through blurred vision, and he tenses when Voldemort reaches out to him, expecting pain. Instead, Harry is pulled into a tight embrace. 

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Voldemort whispers, his breath tickling Harry’s ear. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry’s battle against the tears is lost as the sob he’s been holding back bursts through his mouth. As soon as it escapes him, Harry loses it. He crumbles into the man’s hold, and they slowly sink to the floor, sobs wracking his body as he grieves for Sirius. 

Voldemort’s embrace is warm and comfortable, and for the first time since Sirius died, Harry actually feels like he can finally grieve. He burrows his face into the side of Voldemort’s neck, his tears making the man’s skin slick. He fists the lapels of Voldemort’s robes and weeps, not just for Sirius, but for what he represented. With his Godfather gone, the chance to be free of the Durselys and have a real family was gone too. 

Voldemort didn’t seem to mind the way Harry ruined his robes, or if he did, he didn’t show it. Instead, Voldemort pulled Harry closer to him, allowing Harry to sob himself hoarse on his shoulder. He smells like parchment and ink, a comforting smell that made Harry feel safe. An oxymoron considering he was currently crying his eyes out in the lap of the Dark Lord. 

Voldemort slowly glided his fingers through Harry’s hair, causing Harry to shiver when his fingers brushed the sensitive part of the back of his neck. The feeling of Voldemort’s hug and caresses made Harry melt into him, and slowly the tears slowed to a stop. 

Even when Harry was no longer crying, Voldemort continued to embrace Harry, and though he knew he should leave it, Harry didn’t have the strength to move out of the comforting position. So instead of following his logic, Harry relaxed further into Voldemort’s arms. 

Voldemort hummed gently, his fingers dancing across Harry’s scalp in a way that let him sigh. He could feel all the tension he’d been carrying bleed out of him, leaving Harry in a satisfied, warm stupor. 

“Why did this happen?” Harry asked finally, his voice hoarse from his crying fit. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” Voldemort agreed. “This was never supposed to happen, Harry, I assure you.” 

“Why—” Harry cut himself off when his voice broke and a fresh wave of tears sprang into his eyes. Voldemort hummed and gently trailed his fingers down Harry’s spine in a comforting manner. Harry cleared his throat. “Why were the Death Eaters there?”

“They were there as a protection detail,” Voldemort answered, his voice tense. “I was planning to retrieve the prophecy later that day. Their job was to make sure no one spotted me.” 

Harry scoffed. “They did a _fantastic_ job.” 

“They saw the error of their ways,” Voldemort growled, his voice promising pain. Harry shivered at the bloodlust in his tone, and Voldemort tightened his grip. “Bellatrix was punished _severely_ for what she did. She had no right to do that.” 

“Doesn’t matter, though, does it?” Harry said, and though his words were biting, there was no venom in his tone. Harry was so tired. “Sirius is dead already, and you can’t change that. I’m all alone now.” 

“You are not alone, Harry,” Voldemort said vehemently. “You have that Weasley blood-traitor, don’t you? Him and that little mudblood?” 

Harry frowned and lightly slapped Voldemort’s arm. “Don’t call them that,” he said. “Their names are Ron and Hermione. They’re my best friends.” 

“See? You have them,” Voldemort continued, paying no mind to Harry’s scolding. “In fact, I’m sure you have the whole Weasley clan on your side. You have that werewolf, too, don’t you?” 

“He probably hates me,” Harry mumbled miserably. “He probably blames me because it was my fault Sirius died.” 

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Voldemort said tersely. “Bellatrix is at fault for Black’s death, not you.” 

“I’m the reason he was there in the first place,” Harry protested. “If not for me, he would be at home right now.” 

“And _I’m_ the reason _you_ were there in the first place,” Voldemort countered. “I’m the one who told you about the prophecy. Bellatrix killed Black because he was stopping her from hurting you, which she only wanted to do because she thought it was something I’d want. If you want to blame someone, blame me.” 

Harry blinked back tears. “I really wish I did,” Harry whispered. “It would be so much easier if I hated you, you know.” 

“I know,” Voldemort said softly, his voice melancholy. “The point I’m trying to make, Harry, is that you’re not alone. You have the Weasleys, the werewolf, Dumbledore—” 

“I blew up Dumbledore’s office,” Harry said softly. “After we got back. I was just so angry and then everything exploded.” 

Voldemort chuckled. “That’s my Harry,” he said with a grin. Harry was then lightly tugged out of his hiding spot in Voldemort’s collarbone. Voldemort had gently pulled Harry, and maneuvered him so that he was straddling Voldemort’s lap, facing Voldemort. 

Voldemort cupped Harry’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear streaking down his face. Harry’s breath hitched in the back of his throat at the gentle gesture, and he was frozen as Voldemort slowly leaned closer, a fond expression on his face. Harry knew that he should be breaking out of Voldemort’s hold, knew that he should turn his face to avoid him, but Harry didn’t. 

This time, when Voldemort’s lips met Harry’s, Harry allowed it with a soft gasp. This was nothing like the rushed peck after their first “date”. Voldemort’s lips were warm and soft as they pressed firmly against Harry’s. It was gentle and chaste, and as quickly as the kiss began, it ended. Voldemort pulled away, thumbing Harry’s cheek thrice as his face crinkled with a sweet smile. 

“You have me,” he said softly, letting his forehead rest against Harry’s. Harry’s eyes well up with moisture again, a cacophony of emotions swirling in his chest. The overwhelming feelings cause Harry to flush as he leans forward to bury his face in Voldemort’s chest, hiding his weakness from view. 

Voldemort says nothing as Harry relaxes into his hold, merely tightening his arms and gently petting Harry’s sides. The encompassing feeling of safety allows Harry’s eyes to slip closed, his exhaustion pulling him under into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

When Harry wakes up, he is lying on the king-sized bed, his body covered by the soft blankets and furs. Voldemort is asleep next to him, his arms wrapped around Harry’s waist. Harry shifts slightly so that he’s on his side, facing Voldemort, and Voldemort murmurs sleepily and tightens his hold on Harry ever so slightly.

What was he doing? Why was he so calm? He just woke up in the Dark Lord’s bed after he cried himself to sleep in the man’s lap. Why was he acting so strangely? This was crazy. What would everyone say if they saw him now? 

Instead of doing the logical thing like slipping out unnoticed and getting the hell out of there, Harry’s eyes traced Voldemort’s face, taking in the man’s handsome features. Voldemort’s sleeping face was peaceful, the emotionless mask he always seemed to wear was nowhere in sight. His face was pale, dappled light spotting across his fair skin from the curtains. His cheekbones were defined as they moved from the center of his face to his ears, down to his defined jawline. 

Harry couldn’t resist the opportunity, and he slowly lifted his hand, lightly tracing Voldemort’s features with his fingers. They slowly trailed up his jawbone, mapping out the way the tendons in his neck met his chin and jaw. He slowly moved over to his soft cheeks, where Harry noticed subtle freckles. His thumbs traced his eyelids, Voldemort’s long eyelashes kissing the skin on his face. 

With a tomato red face, Harry allowed his fingers to slowly trail from his eyelashes to his lips. His thumb gently traced Voldemort’s lower lip, and Harry was surprised to see the skin of his lips were softer than the petals of Aunt Petunia's roses. Those lips had kissed his. Those lips had pressed against Harry’s, twice. Those lips—

Harry let out a startled squeak when a hand suddenly grabbed Harry’s wrist. Mortified, Harry looked up to see Voldemort’s crimson gaze staring into Harry’s eyes with an intensity he’d never seen before. 

“You—How long were you awake?” Harry asked, and Harry could practically feel the heat radiating off his face. 

Voldemort’s eyes were amused as he lifted Harry’s hand to press a soft kiss to the back of it. “I don’t need to sleep.” he said in lieu of answering. 

That meant that he’d been awake for all of it. Harry was practically drowning in embarrassment. To save face, Harry turned to his only defense mechanism. “So you were watching me sleep? Merlin, you really _are_ a creep.” 

“Seems I’m not the only one,” Voldemort pointed out with a smirk. Harry just scoffed and averted his gaze. “I’m flattered.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said firmly. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”

“Not long,” Voldemort said, tightening his grip around Harry’s waist and using it to pull him closer to him, chuckling at Harry’s surprised gasp. “It’s a little past three in the afternoon.” 

Voldemort began to gently press kisses to the side of Harry’s neck. The lips that he’d been memorizing seconds earlier now trailed their way from Harry’s ear to his collarbone. Harry was surprised at how good it felt, which is why it took him so long to process what Voldemort just said. 

“I have to go home!” Harry said with a gasp, his eyes widening when he realized he’d been gone most of the day. “Stop that! Take me back!” 

Voldemort pressed another chaste kiss to Harry’s neck before he let out a sigh and pulled away. “Very well,” he said, and Harry narrowed his eyes when he realized Voldemort’s tone sounded more like he was being asked to get tortured rather than return his kidnappee. “Let’s go.” 

Harry crawled out of Voldemort’s bed, ignoring the smirk on the Dark Lord’s face, and took the offered hand. 

Harry clenched his eyes shut against the horrid feeling of side-apparition, and when he opened them again, he was standing in the backyard of number 4, Privet Drive. The garden looked exactly as he left it, no sign of Harry’s forceful departure from earlier. 

“I knocked out your guards and changed their memories,” Voldemort says softly. Harry had completely forgotten about them. “No one should notice you’ve been gone.” 

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Harry’s head, Harry’s eyes fluttering shut before he pulled away and began to step back. Before he could apparate away, though, Harry called out. 

“Thank you,” he whispered softly. “For everything.”

Voldemort’s gaze softened. “Any time, my love.” 

Harry stood there long after Voldemort had apparated away, his face flushed red as he fought against the butterflies erupting in his stomach.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Voldemort wakes up to a headache. As he cracks his eyes open to the sound of chickens clucking outside, Voldemort slowly stands and stretches his stiff muscles. He must have fallen asleep at some point—sleep coming much easier to him now that he had a whole soul—and he quickly cast a _tempus_ charm. 

Voldemort quickly picks up the letter that Harry left him and tenderly places it in the inside pocket of his robes before he walks over to the bookshelf to get what he came here for. He carefully pulled out the journal that Harry had written all their plans in and held it tight to his chest. 

A quick visit to the bathroom where he cleaned himself up and got ready for the Wizengamot, and he was off. Voldemort apparates to the Ministry building in time to witness all the members of the Wizengamot enter the chamber. 

Voldemort waits until the door closes before he enters the room that leads to the box in front of the Wizengamot and takes a deep breath. _For Harry_. The chamber turns silent when Voldemort enters, and as his eyes travel the crowd, he can see the hatred in some of their faces. 

He steps up, fingers the journal for a burst of courage, and speaks. 

“I know you are wary from the war,” Voldemort said, his confident voice echoing across the silent chamber. “I understand. War is messy and brutal and a lot of people were killed. You look at me and see a monster fighting for tyranny, but I am here to tell you that I intend to change Wizarding England for the better.” 

He sees their suspicious faces, and he powers through. “I know a lot of you are unaware of my actual goal, most of what you know is propaganda, so please, allow me to inform you,” he said. “My only aim is to separate our kind from muggles. Muggles pose a serious risk to the statute, and they outnumber us ten to one. A war with the muggles is a war we cannot win, magic or no.

“I propose total separation from muggles. When a muggle-born is recognized by the Ministry, I want to integrate them into our world. Their parents have the choice to either completely join our world and live as squibs, or give up the right to raise their child and be obliviated.” Voldemort said. 

The faces of the Wizengamot were scandalized. Voldemort knew that no one expected this from him, and he knew it would take a lot to sell the idea, so brought up the one factor that would likely sway them to his side. 

“The one thing our kind hates more than death is abuse. Child abuse, to be specific,” Voldemort said, startling everyone in the room. “And for good reason. Not only is it barbaric, but it also poses a huge threat. Our fertility rate is low, and each child is sacred and precious. To abuse a magical child puts the child at risk of developing an obscurus, a dangerous parasite that will kill the child. 

“All abuse cases that we have seen have come from muggle-borns, and muggle-raised,” Voldemort continued. “Wizards know better than to harm our children, but muggles' fear turns to hatred and that hatred can be taken out on the child. How many muggle-borns do we send back from Hogwarts, only to find they never return?” 

He could see them all pondering the question, realization turning to horror on each of their faces. “If we raise a muggle-born in the wizarding world, we can better ensure their parents treat them properly, or we can provide a family struggling to conceive with an heir,” Voldemort said. “This will also allow the muggle-borns to adapt to our culture, which will stop them from trying to erase ours with their own.” 

What Voldemort didn’t say was that in a decade or two, discrimination between blood purity will slowly go away as the muggle-borns will be raised as Pure-Bloods, making it impossible to know the difference unless they’re told. It was an ingenious plan that Harry had suggested. 

“Our populations will rise if this is implemented,” Voldemort continued. “As we would have fresh, new blood to marry into, and fewer muggle-borns being murdered.” 

He knew that the decision would need to be made in a little while, as Voldemort had given everyone a lot to think about, but he could see a lot of people considering his place. Voldemort ended the meeting a few moments later, promising another meeting in a month where they can make a vote. 

As Voldemort makes his way out of the Wizengamot, he is filled with an exhausted pride. _I did it, Harry,_ Voldemort thought, _Are you proud?_

When Voldemort apparated back to Hogwarts castle, he was tired. The meeting had been exhausting, and despite sleeping for a long time the night before, the rollercoaster of emotions was too much for him, and Voldemort was ready to sink into his bed and sleep. 

Just as he was about to enter his quarters, however, the mudblood and blood-traitor frantically burst into the Headmaster’s office, their eyes wide. It was obvious from the way they’d been breathing that they ran all the way here. 

“What do you want?!” Voldemort snapped, not having the patience to deal with them. 

“I think I found a way to bring Harry back!” she cried. 

Suddenly, Voldemort wasn’t feeling very tired anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOH! SHE MIGHT BRING HIM BACK! *PLOT TWIST* How do you think she'll do it? Now you know why Harry left, were any of you expecting that? (I really was trying to make this is an angsty, dark fic but somehow it ended up fluffy TT^TT  
> \---------------------------  
> Tonks: Shit, did I fall asleep on patrol??  
> Tonks: _again_?!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _WARNING:_ There is smut in this chapter. This takes place in a flashback where Harry is sixteen and has given his full consent!

“What are you talking about? See for myself? What does that mean?” Harry asked, looking at Merope’s disfigured face with immense confusion. 

“Mortal souls have the option to stay here, in the In Between, and watch the mortals on Earth,” Death said in a bland tone. Harry’s head snapped up with shock, the idea of watching his friends, watching Tom cope with Harry’s loss felt… wonderfully awful. Harry, while trapped in his oxymoronic feelings, missed Merope’s hand moving towards his shoulder until it was too late. 

The sudden feeling on his shoulder made Harry flinch backward, his emerald eyes widening as they made contact with Merope’s. She smiled gently at him and her thumb began to brush his skin soothingly. “It’s a little daunting, I know,” she whispered kindly. “Not a lot of souls choose to do this. They’d prefer to move on to the AfterLife and meet their loved ones there.” 

“Did you stay?” Harry found himself asking, recalling the way she mentioned watching Tom from their earlier conversation. Merope nodded, a fond glint entering her eyes. “Why? Why didn’t you move on? You would’ve been in peace.” 

Merope hummed. “I suppose a part of me felt as though I didn’t deserve to be at peace,” she answered honestly, darting her gaze downward to avoid Harry’s response. “However, another part of me—the maternal part—longed to watch after my baby, if only in spirit. I abandoned him in the living world, I simply couldn’t abandon him in the spiritual.” 

“You died,” Harry found himself saying. “That’s different.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” came Merope’s melancholic response. 

The three of them sat in silence for a while, and Harry wondered if this was some kind of cosmic joke. Death, Merope, and the Boy-Who-Lived, all sat together in purgatory. Despite himself, Harry grinned. 

“Would you like to watch him?” Merope asked, bringing Harry’s attention back to the present. 

“I… I don’t know,” Harry answered honestly. “I’d like to see him, of course, but I don’t know if I’ll like what I see. I mean, so much time must have passed…” 

“Time passes differently here,” Merope said. “For us, it has felt like quite a lot of time, and somehow no time has passed at all.” 

“What do you mean? Like, to Tom, I just died?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Quite so, Master,” Death said. “Would you like to see what happened?” 

“Happened or is _happening_?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“As Merope stated, time is not linear here,” Death replied. “Time in the mortal realm moves in a straight line, one thing happens and then a next. Here time is more of an afterthought. Events are always happening, have already happened or might happen, all at the same time.”

Harry’s head hurt just thinking about it. Rather than ask for Death to explain more, which would somehow result in Harry’s head bursting, he chose to simply say, “I’ll watch.” 

Death nodded. “Watching the events in the mortal realm will help you come to your decision,” he said, leaning forward towards the reflective ground of the In Between. His fingers, sickly skeletal yet somehow still humanoid, lightly tapped the ground, and ripples moved throughout the reflection, like that of water being displaced. Harry watched, mystified, as the ripples moved and grew, but Harry didn’t feel it against his sitting form. The ripples, previously reflecting the pure white void, began to dance with color, slowly condensing to form an image. “It will help you decide whether you wish to stay or return.” 

Harry said nothing, only watching with awe as the ripples ceased, and in their place was the image of Hogwarts, the previously grand castle completely destroyed from the battle. Harry watches as his lover marches onto the ground cradling Harry’s body, a mask of clean indifference on his face. Harry had seen the look often enough to be able to see past it, and the amount of grief and agony inside his eyes made Harry gasp. 

_“HARRY POTTER… IS DEAD!”_

He watched as Tom called out Harry’s demise, watched as his friends surrendered and Tom won the war, all while grieving for Harry. He watched as Tom tenderly placed Harry’s body into a glass coffin, and retreated into the Headmaster’s office to grieve. 

_“I don’t know what to do, love, you’re not here. This… This was supposed to be your job. I take over and you change it for the better, remember?”_ Harry watched Tom stare into the window, his eyes full of grief. _“None of your friends are dead, Harry dearest. They’re in the dungeon cells right now. I know that I have to kill them… They’re the face of the rebellion. I have to.”_

“Oh, Tom…” Harry whispered, his hand clenching as he watched Tom wrangle with turmoil. 

_“I have to… It’s expected of me. But… But every time I see them, all I can see is you.”_

Harry jumped when Tom exploded with rage, throwing things and breaking things as he raged about how unfair it was. When it was over, he slumped to the floor, a defeated expression taking over his face. It looked so wrong on his lover’s face, such an expression didn’t belong on Tom’s face. Harry didn’t understand. This was everything Tom had ever wanted, and yet he was behaving like this. 

He didn’t understand, so he had to ask, “You finally did it. You won,” he swallowed dryly, placing his palm against the reflection, the movement sending another wave of ripples on the floor. “Was it worth it?”

_“No. It wasn’t.”_

Harry gasped, ripping his hand off the floor as he turned to face Death. “Can he hear me?” Harry asked, his eyes staring pleadingly into the cold gaze of Death. 

“One of the perks of being my Master,” Death responded dryly. “Some of your words can get across the rift. The words must mean something, however. A strong emotional connection to them.” 

“He can hear me…” Harry marveled, looking back down at Tom. Tom, who was now walking down the halls of Hogwarts towards the dungeons. Harry’s eyebrows raised with surprise at the sudden change in scenery. Death’s explanation of time flashed into his mind, and he realized that he would never understand how time worked in this place, and he was better off not trying to figure it out. 

Harry let out a surprised gasp when he saw the people Tom was visiting. “Hermione… Ron…” he whispered, his fingers twitching with the desire to touch them. They looked… rough. Their faces were dirty and scuffed, deep lines of grief marring their usual expressions of determination. 

His hands trembled as he watched Tom interrogate his best friends. Tom was ruthless, and Harry could see what Merope was talking about now. Tom was losing himself again, and the sight of it broke Harry’s heart, especially when he realized that Tom was struggling with his desire to kill them. 

When Hermione snarled that Tom had killed Harry, Harry could see Tom spiraling. Tom screeched with rage, demanding to know where the rest of the Order was hiding. Harry could feel his heart break when he heard Tom’s voice crack, desperation, anger, and grief taking a toll on him. 

Harry allowed his finger to trace the reflection of Tom’s cheek, gently whispering the advice that Harry would give him if he was there in person. “Patience Tom,” he said, a smile crossing his face despite himself as he was reminded of the several arguments they’d had about his controlling nature. “The word won’t bend to your will, you know.” 

To Harry’s surprise, Tom’s face snapped around, his eyes searching the emptiness as though he heard and felt everything Harry just did. Even more surprising was the way Tom followed Harry’s advice, transfiguring a chair and attempting a civil conversation with the pair. Key word being _attempt_ , as Ron’s sharp tongue drew Tom’s ire once again. 

When Tom strode out of the cell, his entire body radiating with anger, Harry was amazed at Tom’s control. Harry knew that Tom was conflicted with his need to kill them, but he never expected Tom to abstain from his violent tendencies like that, especially when Ron was practically begging for it. He was grateful, of course, as Harry didn’t want to watch his lover kill his best mate, but he had to know what Tom was thinking. 

Projecting his desire to speak with Tom as hard as he could through the reflection, Harry asked, “Why didn’t you kill him?” 

Tom’s haggard gasp sent a jolt of pain through his chest. As he watched Tom place his hand on a mirror reverently, he sent a confused look towards Death. “He sees you in his reflection,” Death answered his unasked question. “He sees you.”

_“No, my love, please don’t do this to me,”_ Tom whispered to the mirror. _“You’re not real.”_

“Why didn’t you kill him, Tom?” Harry asked again, curiosity winning over his desire to comfort his crying lover. When Tom mentioned something about information, he shook his head. Harry knew there was more to it. There had to be. He repeated his question, only to receive a sob in response. “Why didn’t you kill Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger?” Harry asked again. 

_“Because they’re all I have left of you.”_

The response left Harry reeling, his hand flinching off the reflection in shock. He gasped sharply, his eyes filling with tears without his consent. His vision blurred, and he blinked a couple of times to clear the wetness. 

“It’s shocking, isn’t it?” Merope asked, making Harry look at her. “To see how much he loves you,” she clarified. “Your relationship with my son is more complicated than anything I’ve ever seen before, that is true. But I can see his love for you. And I know you love him, too. Don’t you?”

“I… I do…” he whispered. “Merlin help me, I do.” 

Merope smiled a sad, tiny thing. “Love is a wonderful thing,” she whispered. “Powerful. It can change people, for better or worse. Despite the odds against you, the two of you found love. Your love was complicated and messy, full of arguments and strife, but love nonetheless.

“My son never felt that before you,” she continued, a regretful glint flashing in her eyes for a moment. “He isn’t keen on giving it up.” 

Harry turned his attention back towards Tom, who was once again trying to get information out of his friends. He looked conflicted, unasked questions darting onto his face. Harry had never seen Tom look so unsure, and Harry couldn’t help but place his hand on the reflection again and gently whisper, “Come now, Tom, just use your words.” memories of Tom’s elegantly worded letters and speeches flashing in his mind. “I know you know how.” 

Tom’s face hardened and opened his mouth, but the words that came out was not what he was expecting. _“Tell me what you know about the Horcruxes.”_

Harry watched with horror as Tom and his friends talked about their mission, his eyes filling as he saw Tom’s hands clenching and unclenching as Harry’s actions were revealed so callously by Ron. The way he hunted down Tom’s soul fragments and destroyed them. Tom’s face, while still holding up to that indifferent mask, was subtly displaying the despair he felt at the thought of Harry destroying parts of his lover. 

When Tom mentioned that Harry was his Horcrux, if Harry was still alive, he was sure his heart would’ve stopped. He watched, his heart steadily breaking as Tom suggested that Harry died because of the Horcrux. While it was true, the way Tom suggested it, so full of disgust and malice, made Harry shiver. 

And then Ron spoke. 

_“Who’d want a piece of a_ monster _stuck inside them?”_

Harry choked on a sob, the unexpected cry surprising him. Through a blurred gaze, Harry watched as Tom made his retreat, stumbling through the castle as Ron’s hateful words coursed through his mind. He trembled when, in a fit of rage, Tom hurled a book into the mirror, scattering thousands of glass shards throughout the room before he slumped to the ground and fell into a disturbed sleep. 

“That’s not… I didn’t… I didn’t do it because of _that_!” Harry wailed, his voice catching. He turned to face Merope’s grim gaze, his emerald eyes pleading as he stared at her. “I did it for _him_! I didn’t… I never meant to… to—”

“I know,” Merope said gently. “I know.” 

Watching Tom’s behavior following the disastrous day scarred Harry. Seeing Tom stare at his blood, disassociating from the pain and the danger made Harry genuinely afraid for the first time in a while. “Come on Tom,” Harry whispered, both hands bracing the image of Tom staring at his blood pooling on the floor. “What you’re doing is dangerous. Stop it. Heal yourself.” 

Harry let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding when Tom healed himself. He relaxed slightly, his eyes following Tom as he made his way, once again, to Ron and Hermione. Of all the things Harry expected Tom to say, admitting their relationship was not one of them. 

Harry knew that Tom was trying to bring him back, courtesy of Death and the strange way time moved here, but to see Tom break down in front of his best friends, Tom’s _enemies_ was a whole other experience. 

Harry gasped when Tom admitted to Hermione that he and Harry had been in a relationship. He should’ve known Hermione would be the one to figure it out, she was always the smart one. Tom admitted everything so easily, and Harry couldn’t stop the sob that escaped his lips even if he tried. 

Despite their misgivings, Hermione and Ron didn’t seem to hate him. There was no betrayal in their gaze, nor any horror at the knowledge that their best friend, supposed Savior of the Wizarding World was in a relationship with the Dark Lord. 

He sat there silently, watching his best friend and lover work together, desperate to bring him back, and he was reminded, not for the first time, just how much he loved them. He said nothing when they fought, did nothing but watch with curious eyes as Tom got angrier and angrier with how much time they were taking. 

He didn’t interfere, watched with numbness until Tom apparated to their cottage. He was reminded of the letter he left for Tom while they were on the run, a few months before he died. He had forgotten about it entirely, the contents of the letter slipping his mind as more important things came to light. 

Watching Tom read his letter and break down crying was the final straw for him. Harry shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down hard as he choked on sobs, the pain sending his body into trembles. He longed to be right next to Tom, wished with all he had that he could hold Tom and comfort him. 

“There are no words to describe the pain of loss,” Merope whispered softly by his side, her fingers gently rubbing circles into his hunched back. “It is a world-ending, mind-breaking, life-changing agony and it never ends.” 

“How do you get over it?” Harry asked through his hoarse cries. “How long will he feel like this? When will he be okay again? How long must he suffer before he returns to normal?”

“There is no returning to what once was after a loss,” Merope said. “You must struggle and brave the pain until you can make a new normal, a new life, one where the grief remains but is no longer as devastating as it once was.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
| _1996_ |  
Harry stares at the blank parchment, conflicted. He had traded a few words with Voldemort throughout the new school year, but everything is so messed up now—the attack in the Department of Mysteries had shaken the Wizarding World, and suddenly everyone knew that Voldemort was back and the world was once again at war. 

The general public was in a panic, people looking towards the figureheads for guidance in the troubling times. Dumbledore, finally over his avoidance from last year, had started Harry up in private lessons. Private lessons that entailed Voldemort’s backstory and childhood. 

Learning about him in such a way felt wrong, intruding almost. Despite their steadily growing closeness, Harry felt like he was betraying him in a way. After Voldemort had come to visit him over the summer and help Harry with his grief, it felt like a line had been crossed, and suddenly, Harry found himself enjoying his sudden “kidnappings”, finding the man’s continued presence to be comforting. 

There had only been one other kidnapping since school started, and Harry had found himself in Riddle Manor—a place he discovered to once belong to the Riddle Family, now belonging to Voldemort—and the unlikely pair spent the entire afternoon together in comfortable silence, Harry completing schoolwork while Voldemort read, a stray hand gently carding through Harry’s hair. 

That was another thing that changed since the summer: the touching. Ever since Harry allowed the kiss, Voldemort had gotten much more physical with him. It wasn’t sexual, of course, just small brushes of skin every now and then. A few chaste kisses on the forehead and cheek. All gentle and innocent, purely for the tactical pleasure of skin on skin. 

Harry found that he didn’t mind it at all. 

They sent letters regularly, but ever since the lessons with Dumbledore started up, his letters became stilted and awkward. He knew Voldemort had noticed, and save for one concerned letter, he hadn’t brought it up. 

Harry wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. The guilt he felt at learning Voldemort’s childhood, something that seemed very private, was making Harry uncomfortable. He thought he could withstand it a little longer, but the lesson he had earlier changed his mind. 

He could still remember the image of a young Tom Riddle, lonely and bitter, sitting there alone in the orphanage, surrounded by children. He knew that Dumbledore intended for Harry to feel disdain towards Voldemort, that much was obvious by the blatant bigotry he shared about Tom’s “born evil”. But instead of making Harry hate him, the memories only served to make Harry sympathetic. 

He could understand Tom better than Dumbledore. He knew what it was like to be hated for something beyond your control. Knew what it was like to grow up lonely, surrounded by people. It was a horrible, painful experience, one he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Despite trying not to, Harry couldn’t help but blame Dumbledore for the existence of Voldemort. Would that lonely Tom Riddle still become Lord Voldemort if Dumbledore hadn’t shamed him the first time they met? If Dumbledore had waited to make his assumptions, would Tom have grown to be cared about? Would he have had a different life?

Harry wonders…

Harry’s hand moves on autopilot, and his emerald eyes dip down to see the singular sentence written on the parchment. Harry had managed to write what he was thinking in a simple sentence, one that got his point across. 

_I need to see you._

That was all he wrote, and he carefully scrawled out underneath it the date of his next Hogsmeade trip, which, as luck would have it, was next week. After that, he simply walked to the owlery and sent Hedwig on her way. 

He spent the rest of the week on autopilot, going through the motions, but not fully there. His mind was distracted by the raging turmoil inside of him. This was the first time Harry had requested to see Voldemort, and the man was either very pleased or very worried. Perhaps a bit of both. 

The guilt of breaching Voldemort’s privacy had finally hit him, and he realized that he would have to come clean to the man, tell him everything, and hope he wouldn’t be angry with him. He bit his lip nervously at the thought. Would he hurt him if he was angry?

No, that didn’t sound like something he would do. Despite their previous fights, Voldemort no longer wanted to harm him. As crazy as it sounds, Harry would have to trust Voldemort to remain calm. 

It seemed much more likely now than it did before their relationship changed. Harry had grown used to Voldemort’s courting, and he actually—Harry’s face flushed and his mouth dropped into a surprised gape—he actually _liked_ it. 

Oh, Merlin. 

Harry covered his face with his hands, ignoring the strange looks Ron shot him, and fought back the urge to scream. Harry enjoyed the attention Voldemort was giving him. Harry actually had a _crush_ on the Dark Lord! 

When did this happen? How could this happen? That man was Harry’s enemy, and all the kisses and courting in the world couldn’t change that! 

And yet… And yet, somehow it did. Because instead of turning Voldemort into Dumbledore, instead of telling someone what was going on—what had been going on for a while, Harry eagerly awaited each letter. Harry happily responded. Harry enjoyed being “kidnapped” just to spend the afternoon with the man lazily, a comfortable air between them. 

It was everything Harry had wanted for himself, and everything he never thought he’d have the chance to have.

It was all messed up, now, wasn’t it? Harry liked the Dark Lord. Now that Harry was aware of his feelings, there was no way he’d be able to hide it from the man. Voldemort was irritatingly perceptive, especially when it came to Harry. 

But Voldemort wouldn't do anything without Harry’s consent, something the man had been very firm on. He was also very firm on waiting until Harry was old enough—Harry flushed when he realized he was sixteen now, the age of consent in the Wizarding World. 

But did he want… Did he want anything to happen between them? 

Flashes of Voldemort and him _doing things_ made Harry bite his lip as his face steadily became a tomato. The idea wasn’t unpleasant, but… Harry shook his head, stopping the thought before it could continue. Voldemort might not even want him after he found out. 

Harry would deal with it when he got there. 

The day of the Hogsmeade trip snuck up on him, and Harry was startled to see it was today. He’d been so distracted with everything, that he hadn’t even realized time was passing. He followed Ron and Hermione into Hogsmeade, waving to them when they went off on their date. They thought Harry was going to be in the library for the entirety of the trip, giving them some much needed alone time. Harry was happy that they were finally together, no longer butting heads over Lavender. 

Harry made his way towards the Library, his hands shoved into his pockets. He had only crossed the street when hands shot out from an alleyway and dragged him into the dark. Harry relaxed against the familiar grip, and he clenched his eyes as the nauseating feeling of apparition tore through his gut. 

Harry gasped and stumbled when he landed, and it was only Voldemort’s grip on his waist that kept him standing. “Hello darling,” he purred into Harry's ear, making him shiver, and the feelings he felt towards Voldemort was suddenly pounding in his head. “Your letter surprised me. Does your urgency have anything to do with why you’ve been acting so strangely?” 

Harry wasn’t surprised that Voldemort had picked up on it, just as he suspected. Instead of answering, Harry wriggled his way out of Voldemort’s arms and gathered his thoughts. Voldemort allowed the movement with a raised brow, and Harry bit his lip, his breath hitching when Voldemort’s crimson gaze darkened with desire. 

“I…” Harry swallowed dryly. “I…” 

Harry’s hesitance sparked something in Voldemort, as he was suddenly all up in his personal space, eyes tracing him for any sign of injuries. “Are you alright?” he asked, looking over Harry’s body with an intensity that made him tremble. “Did something happen?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, only to regret it when Voldemort’s eyes flashed with rage, no doubt going to the worst possible scenario. “No! I mean,” Harry let out a harsh sigh, dragging his fingers through his hair nervously. “Something happened but I’m not hurt or anything, I just… I just needed to, uh, see you… I guess.” 

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “What happened, Harry?” he demanded, and Harry winced. First name instead of pet name, never a good sign. 

“You won’t like it,” Harry stalled, fiddling with his fingers. “You’re going to be mad.” 

“Tell me what happened, love,” Voldemort said gently, gliding over to where Harry stood to take Harry’s hand in his soothingly. “I won’t be angry with you.” 

Harry sucked in a deep breath and steeled himself. “I’ve been getting private lessons,” Harry said quickly. He noted the way Voldemort’s gaze narrowed dangerously, and he wanted to hit himself when he realized how that sounded. He quickly rushed to correct himself before Voldemort could get the wrong idea. “About you!” he added. 

“About...me?” Voldemort asked. 

“Yeah, er,” Harry frowned. “Dumbledore… he’s giving me lessons about you… Who you really are, your childhood. That kind of stuff.” 

Voldemort was stiff, his fingers clenching tightly around Harry’s hand as he stared unseeingly at Harry’s face. He was silent for a long time, and Harry’s heart raced as he waited for Voldemort’s reaction. After what felt like an eternity, Voldemort pulls away from him, his face closing in on itself. 

“I see.”

“I… It felt weird, and I’m sorry! It was a huge breach of privacy, but I couldn’t tell him no—” 

“I am not angry with you, Harry,” Voldemort said gently, but his gaze was still steely with rage. “I am furious with Dumbledore. That meddling old man, how dare he?!”

“He’s trying to prepare me,” Harry said, half-heartedly defending him. “He thinks this will help me defeat you.” 

“Defeat me?” Voldemort barked out a laugh. “And what has he shared? What precious knowledge has he bestowed?” 

Harry flinched at the venom in Voldemort’s tone. It had been a very long time since Harry had heard such venom spat towards him. He wasn’t sure what to do. Voldemort had claimed that he wasn’t angry with Harry, but he was wary. 

“Just, um, your childhood,” Harry whispered, clenching his hands into fists at his side to hide their trembling. “I learned about the orphanage. And… your mom.” 

At the mention of his mother, Voldemort became as still as stone. His gaze was cold, and Harry took a small step back, unconsciously afraid of his reaction. Voldemort’s crimson gaze met Harry’s for a couple of tense seconds before he turned away from him. 

“And?” he asked. “What do you think? Am I different to you now that you know?”

Harry bit his lip. “You say… You say that you… _love me_ ,” Harry whispered, hyper-aware of the way Voldemort’s breath hitched. “You say that but… but if it’s true, and you were… How can that be possible?”

Voldemort was silent for a few moments before he spoke. “You speak of the Love Potion aftereffects, yes?” he asked. Harry nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. Voldemort took Harry’s silence as the answer, as he continued, “The theory that those conceived under the effects of a love potion don’t know how to love…” 

“Yes, that,” Harry answered softly, nervously rubbing his scar. “If it’s true, then how can you love me?”

Voldemort turns then, and Harry startles at the fond look in his eye. He expected anger and rage, not this softness. Voldemort walked over to where Harry stood, his stride calm. He gently leaned down to rest his forehead against Harry’s, the air suddenly supercharged with tension. He gently cupped Harry’s cheeks and tilted his face up so that their eyes could meet. 

“You taught me,” he whispered, his breath tickling the skin of Harry’s nose. Harry’s eyes widened, his breath hitching in the back of his throat. “I already knew obsession, desire, lust,” Harry’s face reddened at the dark look in Voldemort’s eyes. His thumb began to gently move back and forth on Harry’s cheeks, leaving a trail of tingling skin in its path. “But love… Love was something I needed to be taught. 

“Children conceived under a Love Potion have the potential to love,” Voldemort said, his voice hoarse. “But they must be taught how. No one ever bothered to teach me, Harry. No one until _you_.” 

It was silent, the air so thick with tension, Harry could breathe it in. He stared into Voldemort’s crimson eyes, the strength of his desire practically suffocating. This time it was Harry who leaned in to connect their lips. 

Harry was never a fan of stereotypes, but when they kissed, Harry was sure he felt fireworks. Harry gasped into the kiss, and Voldemort’s hands traveled from his cheeks to his hair, pulling him closer. Their kiss quickly turned heated, and when Voldemort—no, _Tom_ gently nipped his lips, Harry gasped. Tom swallowed the noise hungrily, and suddenly Harry felt his tongue invading his mouth. Unbidden, a moan escaped him. Harry collapsed into Tom’s grip, and he could feel Tom’s heat searing into his body. 

Tom tasted sweet, and the feeling of his tongue dancing with Harry’s, gently mapping out the inside of his mouth, and tapping the back of his teeth was obscene. Tentatively, Harry’s tongue met Tom’s, and _oh, that’s why people like kissing so much_. 

Time seemed to have no meaning as Harry stood there making out with Tom. At some point, Tom had managed to back Harry up against a wall, and when he thrust his thigh in between Harry’s legs, hard skin brushing his sensitive bulge, Harry broke the kiss with a surprised moan, a single string of saliva connecting their mouths. 

Tom broke the strand with his tongue, a sight that sent a stab of pure arousal in his gut, and he bent forward to lick a stripe from his collarbone to his ear. Harry gasped at the sensation, and when Tom began to press open-mouthed kisses to his neck, gently sucking and nibbling on the skin, Harry shivered. 

Harry flinched with surprise when one of Tom’s hands sneaked under his shirt. The soft fingers trailed their way from Harry’s hip bone, tracing the lines of Harry’s toned stomach muscles, and finally reaching Harry’s nipples. Tom simultaneously bit down on Harry’s tendon and pinched his nipple, making Harry buck as a pulse of pleasure shot through him. “T-Tom!” he gasped, turning his head to the side to bare his neck. “Ah!”

Tom chuckled, and Harry could feel the vibrations on his skin. The sensation was new and oh so wonderful, and Harry didn’t even know he was babbling until Tom whispered in his ear sensually. “So vocal,” he purred, and _Merlin, his voice was hot, how was that even possible_ — “The noises you make,” he accentuated this by driving his knee up higher to rub against Harry’s erection and lightly flicked the nub of Harry’s nipple making him whimper. “Simply _divine_.” 

“Tom, Tom, Tom, ah… please!” Harry cried, his hands grasping at Tom’s shoulder. 

“Please what?” Tom asked, and he was a sadist, a pure sadist who enjoyed Harry’s torment. “Now, that’s not nice,” he chuckled, informing Harry that he was once again babbling. “Did you need something, darling?”

“You, please!” Harry whimpered. “Need you! T-Tom!”

“You beg so nicely,” Tom said, his voice deep and gravelly. “How could I refuse?” 

Harry gasped when Tom suddenly hoisted Harry into his arms. His hands gripped Harry’s bottom, and Harry tossed his arms around Tom’s neck and wrapped his legs around his waist. Each step Tom made brushed their erections together, and Harry rested his head on Tom’s shoulder shakily, heavy pants and moans escaping his lips. 

Suddenly, Tom tossed Harry onto a bed, and Harry’s body bounced once before Tom was suddenly on top of him, pushing him against the soft covers. Harry writhed as Tom slowly pushed his shirt up to his collar, exposing his chest. The sudden cold air on Harry’s bare skin sent goosebumps down his arms, and his nipples pebbled. Tom groaned and gently kissed a path from his sternum down to his v-line, pausing to lavish both nipples with attention. 

“Ah! T-Tom! Oh…” Harry cried as Tom’s tongue circled his nipples, the contrasting heat of Tom’s mouth to the cold air doing wonderful things to his nether regions. “Oh! Please, p-please!”

Tom nipped at Harry’s nipple, and the sharp pain made Harry’s hip buck, brushing his heavy need with Tom’s and making him cry out. Tom growled and began to suck a punishing bruise into the divot of Harry’s hip. He was _so close_ to where Harry wanted him to be, if only he would move a few inches… 

The snap of Harry’s pants opening made him pause, though, as awareness returned and he was suddenly very aware that he was about to have sex with Voldemort. That wasn’t the scary part, though, the scary part was that he’d never done anything like this before. 

“Tom I…” Harry said, biting his lip nervously. Tom lifted his head to meet Harry’s nervous gaze and smiled. 

“We don’t have to go all the way if you don’t want, Harry,” Tom promised. 

“No, I… I _want_ to, I just,” Harry blew out a breath of air from his nose, suddenly feeling so embarrassed. “I’ve never… I don’t… I haven’t ever…” he whispered, wishing that he could disappear. 

Tom’s smile was unbearably fond. “I know, love,” he said soothingly. “I promise I will be gentle. I’ll make you feel good.” 

The promise made Harry’s hip twitch, and it was so unfair that Tom could look this good! Tom chuckled and stared into Harry’s eyes for a long moment, searching for permission. Harry slowly nodded, and Tom gently tugged off Harry’s pants and underwear, tossing them to the floor. Despite wearing his school robes and shirt pushed to his collar, Harry felt completely naked. 

Tom’s heated gaze took in Harry’s nearly bare form hungrily, and Harry’s erection twitched when he licked his lips. Tom noticed this and smirked, scooting back so that he was face to face with Harry’s manhood. He slowly trailed his finger up the underside of Harry’s length, and Harry moaned, hips bucking as he searched for more contact. 

“You look positively edible, my dear,” Tom whispered. “I might just have a taste.” 

Before Harry had the chance to ask what the hell he meant by that, Tom opened his mouth and greedily sucked Harry down from tip to root. Harry let out a surprised cry as pleasure shot up his spine. “AH! Oh Merlin, f-fuck! T-Tom!” Harry cried, looking down with great effort to see Tom. 

The sight of Tom sucking Harry’s dick was _obscene_. His mouth was stretched around Harry’s girth, and his lips were pink and red, shining with slick saliva and precome. Tom’s crimson eyes met Harry’s, and Harry whimpered. His thighs trembled with the restraint it took not to thrust into Tom’s wonderful mouth. Tom’s tongue brushed against the underside of Harry’s length and hummed. 

Harry screamed as the vibration traveled through him, and Tom pulled off Harry’s erection with a pop. He blew a small bit of air onto Harry’s wet tip, and Harry shivered at the feeling. “Tom,” Harry whined. 

“Easy there, darling, I have you,” Tom whispered. “I’m going to make you feel good.” 

Harry gasped when he felt a strange feeling inside of him. Suddenly he felt empty, and his butt clenched against the feeling. “W-What was _that_?” Harry asked breathlessly. 

“Cleaning charm,” Tom answered. “And a lubrication spell. Trust me, it will make this much better.” 

“What do you—AH!” Harry’s question was cut off when Tom once again slurped down Harry’s erection, only this time, Harry felt a finger gently stroke the space between his balls and hole. “Wha… Ah! T-Tom!”

Tom hummed against Harry’s erection, and Harry cried out. “The perineum is a wonderful spot,” Tom mused, licking the large vein on the underside of Harry’s length. “But I think I can make you feel even better.” 

The feeling of Tom’s finger inside him was something Harry never expected to feel so good. Tom distracted him by a particularly hard suck, and slipped his finger inside the tight ring of muscles. Harry bucked off the bed, accidentally choking Tom in his surprise. Tom didn’t seem fazed by his response, though, and he continued to suck on Harry’s length, a single finger stroking Harry’s inner walls. 

Suddenly an overwhelming feeling of pleasure shot through Harry, making Harry _scream_ , his hands fisting the sheets as he tried to hold back his orgasm. Tom pulled off Harry’s erection and grabbed his length at the base, staving off Harry’s orgasm. “Found it,” Tom said with a dazzling smile. 

“Wh-What was… I… That was…” Harry couldn’t speak, his entire body trembling as Tom continued to massage his insides, occasionally touching the spot that had Harry seeing stars. 

“Do you like that?” Tom asked, sucking hickeys into the inside of Harry’s thighs. 

“T-Tom! S-So good!” Harry whimpered. “Please! Please!”

“Please what?”

“I-Inside!” Harry cried, writhing on the sheets. “Need you! Inside me, please! Ah!”

“I need to prep you better than that,” Tom informed him, and it was so unfair! How could he be so composed while Harry was falling apart? Tom pulled his finger out and Harry whined at the loss, only to choke on his breath when Tom returned with a second finger.

Tom prepared Harry for what felt like an eternity. Two fingers turned into three turned into four, brushing and massaging the inside of Harry’s body. Harry was amazed that he hadn’t come yet, the sheer pleasure building up inside of him was incredible. 

Finally, just when Harry felt like he couldn’t bear it anymore, Tom pulled out and whispered a spell. Harry felt a hot nudge against his flesh and had only a seconds warning before Tom sank inside him in one long thrust. 

Harry’s orgasm was ripped out of him, and his back arched off the bed with a loud sob, his entire body alight with pleasure. He came untouched, hard enough to stripe his stomach and chest with white ribbons. Tom grunted as Harry clenched around him, the head of his erection pressing against Harry’s prostate in the most amazing way. 

“Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom,” Harry babbled, his eyes lidded as he stared at Tom’s face. His face was relaxed with bliss, and Harry could see his arms, bracing either side of Harry’s head, straining against the weight. “So good, Tom, ‘s good!” 

If Harry thought he felt incredible then, it was nothing compared to how he felt when Tom began to _move_. With each thrust, Tom’s length brushed up against Harry’s prostate and sent spikes of pleasure up his spine. Harry moaned wordlessly, too incoherent to worry about the noise. 

Tom leaned down, caging Harry against the bed, his pants and grunts sounding sexy in his ear. Harry wrapped his legs around Tom’s waist, meeting each of Tom’s thrusts, and screamed when the angle allowed Tom to hit more of his prostate. Despite having just come, Harry felt his erection stand proudly in between his thighs, brushing against the defined muscles of Tom’s abdomen with each thrust. 

“Ah! T-Tom!” Harry cried, and Tom groaned low in Harry’s ear, slamming his hips brutally into Harry’s once, twice, three times before he was coming. The feeling of Tom’s come filling his insides made Harry cry out, coming for the second time in one day. 

Afterward, he slumped down against the bed, Tom falling on top of him before rolling over. Harry basked in the afterglow, his body pleasantly twitching with aftershocks. Tom pulled out, and Harry could feel his come dribbling out. Tom slowly trailed his fingers up and down Harry’s chest, and that was the last thing he remembered before he blacked out. 

When Harry woke up, his body was pleasantly sore, and he felt clean. He stretched, arching against the bed and cracking his back. Harry let out a soft groan of pleasure before he fell back against the bed, smiling with his eyes still closed as Tom wrapped his arms around Harry’s still-bare waist and tugged him closer to him. 

“Hi,” Harry mumbles softly, leaning his head against the divot in Tom’s shoulder. 

Tom chuckled. “Hello, darling,” he said, pressing a soft kiss into the back of Harry’s neck. “How do you feel?”

“I feel fucking fantastic,” Harry said with a grin, cracking his eyes open to see Tom’s smile. “That was incredible. It was…” 

“Hmm, yes, it was,” Tom agreed. “I certainly wasn’t expecting this when you arrived today.” 

“I just needed to see you,” Harry whispered. “After the lessons I just…” 

Tom’s jaw clenched at the mention of Harry’s lessons, and Harry cursed himself for being so stupid. He wasn’t going to let his slip ruin the wonderful afterglow. He turned, supporting his weight on his elbow and allowed his other hand to cup Tom’s jaw. 

“He wanted me to hate you but he did just the opposite,” Harry said, thumbing Tom’s cheek. 

Tom grinned as he glanced down at Harry’s bare body. “Clearly.” 

“You and I are quite similar, you know,” Harry said, not letting Tom change the subject. “I get it. The Dursleys… They were—” Harry cut himself off, steeling his resolve. 

“You don’t have to share that, you know,” Tom countered softly. “Don’t feel obligated—”

“I don’t! Feel obligated, that is,” Harry said quickly. “I want you to know, truly, I do.” Tom searched Harry’s gaze for a moment before he nodded. “They wanted to be normal so badly. I didn’t fit into their picture. They tried to stamp the magic out of me but it didn’t really work.” 

Tom’s gaze hardened at that, and Harry pressed a soft kiss to his lips to silence him. “I spent my childhood surrounded by people but still unbearably alone,” Harry continued. “I didn’t have anyone. It wasn’t until I meant Ron and Hermione that I felt like I wasn’t alone anymore.” 

Tom shifted and took the hand that was cradling his face and brought it to his lips, pressing a sweet kiss to Harry’s knuckles. “You aren’t alone anymore,” he whispered. “You have me.” 

Harry smiled and leaned in to capture Tom’s lips. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I do.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Explain. Now!” Voldemort hissed, staring at the mudblood’s excited figure. 

“Okay, right, so,” Granger nodded. “When Harry destroyed the Horcrux containers, the soul shards flew back to you, right?” 

“Yes. So?” Voldemort demands, ignoring the memory of Harry’s letter.

“That means that when Harry died, the soul fragment inside of him returned to you, correct?” she asked. 

“In theory,” Voldemort allowed. “What does that matter?”

“We did the math. Harry was our seventh Horcrux, right? If each Horcrux contained a half of your soul, and you split your soul in half seven times then that means Harry housed less than one percent of your soul,” Granger said. Voldemort frowned, mentally going through the math before he realized she was right. “That means that before Hary destroyed the Diary in Second Year, you were operating with less than one percent of your soul, making you certifiably insane.” 

“Get to the point, mudblood,” Voldemort hissed. 

“Hey! She figured it out! Show her some respect!” Weasley cried angrily, his face turning red from frustration. 

“I’ll show respect when I get results!” Voldemort snapped. “Harry had less than one percent of my soul, so what?”

All of the Horcruxes we came across, except for the last two were all pretty sentient,” Granger explained. “The ones that had a large percent of your soul were strong enough to stay aware. The ones that were too small to stay awake just melded with it’s container.” 

“What are you saying?” Voldemort asked carefully, an idea sparking in his head. 

“The soul shard in Harry was tiny, and what’s more, it entered when Harry was just a baby,” Granger said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “That means Harry’s soul was small and weak, just like your soul shard.” 

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Voldemort asked, glee lacing his tone. 

“I think your soul shard and Harry’s soul melded together!” Granger cried. “Which means it can’t be separated!”

“So if Harry died, and the soul shard tried to separate…” Voldemort trailed off, his crimson eyes lighting with hope. 

“The soul shard went to you, but it couldn’t fully separate from Harry’s soul!” Granger grinned. “That means there’s a tether inside of you, connecting your soul to Harry’s!” 

“To bring him back I’d have to go into my magic,” Voldemort said, holding his chin as he concentrated. To go into one’s magic required strong Occlumency and meditation. It was something Voldemort had done before, and he was confident he could do it again. “Find the tether and try to pull Harry back.”

“Harry’s body would need to be close by,” Granger added. “This is all theoretical, but if you find Harry’s tether and manage to pull his soul back, it will need somewhere to anchor.” 

“Will it work?” Voldemort asked. 

“I don’t know,” Granger said softly. “It might.” 

Voldemort’s face hardened with determination. “That’s good enough for me.” 

The following hour was spent gathering the right materials needed to go into Voldemort’s magic. Voldemort decided to perform the necessary ritual inside the astronomy tower where Harry’s body was, and he informed the couple that they would be there watching over Harry’s body.

They rushed to get everything ready, both anxious to get Harry back, and afraid that they were running out of time. When everything was finally ready, Voldemort sat down in the center of a rune circle and sent one last look at Harry’s still body. 

“I’m going to bring you back, dearest,” Voldemort promised before he closed his eyes and went into his magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp! This chapter was a rollercoaster of emotions, and it took forever to write. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you did, leave a kudos and a comment! What do you think is going to happen next?  
> \-----------------  
> Harry: so when you say you've been watching Tom does that mean you've seen everything?  
> Harry: Like, _everything_ , everything?  
> Merope: Do you really want the answer to that question?  
> Harry: not really, no


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _WARNING:_ There is smut in this chapter. This takes place in a flashback where Harry is seventeen. The consent is a little dubious because Harry thinks it's a dream. Read carefully!

| _1997_ |  
Harry was trembling and no matter what he tried, it wouldn’t stop. His breath was going out in short, frenzied bursts, and the motion was making him dizzy. Harry sucked in another sharp breath, squeezing his eyes together tightly, trying with all his might to gather his wits. At some point in his panic, Harry had managed to stumble out of Dumbledore’s office and made his escape. 

Everything was so wrong now, how was he supposed to fix it? Harry didn’t know what to do! Tears stung in his closed eyes and his entire body ached with indecision. He’d retrieved the vial of memories from Slughorn as Dumbledore wanted, and Dumbledore had finally told him the truth, and suddenly, Harry wanted to curse his past self for wanting to know so badly. What Harry would give to forget, to never know. 

Tom, the man who murdered his parents, the man who Harry had somehow managed to fall in love with, the man he gave everything to, the man he wanted to _spend the rest of his life with_ , had _split his soul!_

Harry choked on an unexpected sob. Tom was in so much pain as a child that he had willingly ripped himself to shreds! How could he live like that? Harry could feel his heart breaking, the thought that the man he cared so much about was so broken, and destroyed inside… 

It explained a lot, too. Harry knew that Tom wasn’t all there, but Harry could look past it because Harry loved Tom. Harry loved Tom and he just wanted everything to be different. He wished he wasn’t in the middle of a war. He wished Tom and him weren’t on opposite sides. He wished Tom had never killed his parents. He wished Tom was whole. 

Could they even be together, _really_ together if Tom was broken? 

Would they ever really be happy together the way Tom was now? Harry recalled the way Tom’s gentle and loving figure would slip every now and then, showing his dark and possessive mannerisms hidden below a charming facade. Those instances where his desire to own Harry overruled his desire to keep Harry safe and happy. Harry shivered. 

Those little moments where Tom lost himself in his greed for power, those moments scared him. Harry tried his best to ignore those moments, not wanting their relationship to be tainted, but deep down, Harry knew it was problematic. 

All Harry wanted was to live in the cottage with Tom. Was that too much to ask? Was it? No war, no Boy-Who-Lived, no Death Eaters, no Light versus Dark, no right and wrong. Just Harry, Tom, a few chickens, and the beautiful Sunflower garden. Simple, sweet domestic bliss. 

Harry sighed, another tear slipping down his cheek. He would never have that life with Tom, not now. Not until the war ended, not until the Wizarding World was at peace. Not until Tom was sane. 

Tom, the way he was now, was not sane. Not even close. He barely had half of his soul inside of him! Harry knew that when he destroyed the diary, a sliver of Tom’s soul returned to him and made him stronger. If only he could find all the Horcruxes and heal Tom. 

Harry froze, his eyes widening at the thought.

He could… He could do that, couldn’t he? It was what Dumbledore wanted, so it wasn’t like he was betraying his trust. If he did that, Tom would be healed and sane and they could finally fix the Wizarding World and be together. 

But… Harry frowned, slumping back against the harsh stone wall. Tom wouldn’t want Harry to do that. Would it be betraying Tom, even if it was for his own good? The very thought made Harry clench his teeth. Who was he to decide what was for his own good? Harry _hated_ it when people decided things for Harry without telling him, there was no way he’d do that to Tom. 

Harry nodded, determined. It was decided then. Harry would go and see Tom and bring up the idea and his concerns. Surely Tom would listen, right?  


* * *

  
Harry waited too long to get to Tom and now everything was messed up again! By the time Harry was able to set a meet-up date, Dumbledore had taken him on an excursion to get another Horcrux and when they returned, Hogwarts was in ruins. 

Death Eaters had invaded Hogwarts and Harry wanted to scream because _what the hell was Tom doing?! There are literal children there!_ Harry was glad he slipped the luck potion to his friends before he left, the gut feeling in his stomach warning him that something was wrong. 

He watched with horror as Snape slaughtered Dumbledore, and when he chased after him, he found out that Snape was the Half-Blood Prince, and then as Harry moved to attack him, a stunning spell shot out of nowhere and hit Snape in the back. Harry tensed, preparing for a fight, only to see Tom slip out of the darkness. 

“Tom—” 

The disorienting lurch of apparition cut Harry off, and Harry landed in a sprawled mess on the floor of Tom’s office in Riddle Manor. Harry jumped up to his feet, spinning around on Tom. “Hello, love,” he said with a charming smile like nothing was wrong. 

It made Harry’s jaw clench. “What have you done?” 

“Whatever do you mean?” Tom asked, daring to look confused as he tilted his head to the side. 

“What have you _done_ , Tom,” Harry repeated, his tone icy steel. 

“I got rid of Dumbledore!” Tom exclaimed, his smile stretching into a deranged grin. Harry took a step back at the manic look in his eyes. Instantly, Harry recalled the Horcruxes, and Harry knew that Tom was slipping. “I did what we needed to! This was part of the plan—”

“This was never part of the plan—”

“THIS WAS _ALWAYS_ THE PLAN!” Tom screamed, slamming his fist into the desk. Harry flinched, and when Tom saw this, his hardened eyes softened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Why would you do this?” Harry asked, feeling numb. “You… You sent Death Eaters into Hogwarts!”

“It’s war, dearest, I did what was necessary.” 

His nonchalant attitude made Harry’s skin crawl with rage. “There were _children_ there! Innocent children, Tom!” 

“They were under a direct no-kill order,” Tom said. He stepped forward, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. The touch that would usually fill Harry with warmth and fondness, instead, filled Harry with dread. “I wouldn’t do that to them, Harry. I was simply doing what needed to be done.”

“You didn’t have to… This wasn’t the way to do it,” Harry tried to reason, stepping forward to press his shaking hand to Tom’s chest. His heart was pounding against Harry’s fingertips and Harry knew it wasn’t from guilt, but rather exhilaration. “We were going to try a different approach, remember? We were going to do it peacefully—”

“You’re so naive, Harry,” Tom condescended. The tone made Harry’s stomach boil with rage. “Darling, that technique won’t work right now. We have to do that _after_ we take over Britain.” 

Harry let his head fall against Tom’s chest, and Tom trailed his fingers through his hair. “I wish,” he whispered, feeling tears sting his eyes. “I wish you didn’t have to be the one to take over.” 

Tom stiffened and Harry instantly knew he said the wrong thing. Tom pulled away from the embrace, the look on his face clearly displaying his offended anger. Harry reached for him, but Tom side-stepped him. “Taking over Britain is my life’s goal,” he said, his crimson eyes narrowed. “I thought you supported me with this, Harry!”

Harry frowned. “I… I do… I support _you_ , Tom,” Harry said. “But I don’t support your war. There are better ways to do this, Tom! It doesn’t have to be bloody!”

“You’re just a child,” Tom said, and the barb in his tone made Harry’s chest clench. “You don’t understand, you haven’t seen enough yet, haven’t lived enough. You’ll see when you’re older.” 

“You didn’t think I was a child when you fucked me,” Harry muttered bitterly, crossing his arms over his chest defensibly. 

“Why are you being like this?!” Tom demanded, his frustration bleeding into his tone. “I made a critical step towards victory! I thought you’d be happy!”

“Happy? You killed Dumbledore, Tom! Hogwarts was invaded! Children were traumatized, tortured, and killed! How could you possibly think this would make me happy?!” Harry cried. “Tom, you want to take over England, that’s fine! I want to make the Wizarding World better! But we don’t have to do it like this!”

“This is the only way they will learn, Harry!” Tom snapped, bracing his hands on Harry’s shoulder as he leaned down to stare at him. “You think the Pure-Bloods will change their ways because we asked them _nicely_?! Huh? You think the light wizards will accept dark magic just because we told them to?!”

Harry slapped Tom’s hands off him, backing up. “I don’t know, maybe! It… Why does it even matter?!” Harry asked, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “Tom, look around you! It’s just us! Do you really think the two of us can change an entire country?!”

“Have faith in me, love,” Tom cooed, cupping his cheek. Harry backed away again, not wanting Tom to touch him because he knows he’ll cave. “I know you’re scared, but that’s okay. Once I’ve taken over, everything will finally be okay.”

“Why do you have to, Tom?” Harry asked, finally losing the battle to keep the tears from falling. Tom cooed, gently brushing one of the tears away as he stepped forward to touch Harry once again. This time, Harry leaned into Tom’s touch. “Please,” he whispered, staring up at Tom’s eyes, searching for even a shred of remorse. “Please, we don’t have to do this. You can stop this.”

Tom’s crimson eyes hardened, and Harry let out a surprised gasp when Tom’s grip turned painful. “Are you seriously telling me to give up on my dream, Harry?!” Tom snarled. “This is all I’ve ever wanted to do! I thought you understood!”

The hope that Harry had been harboring died then, and all of the sadness and hope was replaced with blinding fury. “All you care about is taking over Britain!” Harry screamed, and Tom paused. “Clearly it’s the most important thing to you!” 

Clearly because even when Harry asked him, no, even when Harry _begged_ him to stop, Tom refused. Clearly, it was more important to Tom than Harry. Tom sent him a look as he growled, walking over to pick up a book. 

“I am taking over Britain whether you want me to or not,” he said, and Harry let out a bitter laugh. Of course, he was. Because that meant more to Tom than Harry did. “I thought we went over this. Just because we’re together, does not mean that I will compromise on my ideals.” 

“And what about me, huh?!” Harry snapped. “What about my ideals?! My morals?!”

“I thought you wanted to make Britain better?” Tom asked, snapping the book shut as he looked over Harry’s trembling figure. Harry, for the first time in a while, found himself wanting to punch his lover’s face. “Has that changed? Who’s side are you on?”

“I thought there were no sides!” Harry cried, anxiously tugging at his hair, recalling the way Tom had promised him that it would just be the two of them. Another pang of sadness made his chest clench for a moment, and he looked up at Tom beseechingly, silently begging Tom to understand. How could he make Tom understand? “Just you and me. Whatever happened to that? To running away together? What happened to our cottage, Tom?” 

“You are a naive child if you thought that dream was realistic,” Tom snapped suddenly, and the genuine rage in his tone shocked Harry to his core. Harry felt the breath in his lungs escape him like he’d been punched, and he stared at Tom as he spit at him, “And I never should have pursued you in the first place.” 

Harry was frozen in place as his brain processed what Tom just said to him. He sucked in a sharp breath of air and forced himself not to cry. Did Tom really think that? Did he really think that the dream— _their_ dream—was unrealistic? Did he really wish that he never pursued Harry? Was their love really so unimportant to him? 

Harry was going to break down and cry, but he refused to do that in front of Tom. Instead, Harry closed off his face, not wanting Tom to see how he was really feeling, and whispered in a blank tone, “Maybe you’re right. Allow me to leave and fix your mistake,” he allowed anger to fill him and replace the gut-wrenching heart-break. “At least then I won’t have to be ‘kidnapped’ every time you want some bloody attention!” 

“And was it really so bad, my love? Being with me? You always wanted this, don’t lie to yourself.” Tom said, that same charming smile on his face as he stepped forward. It was as if he hadn’t just said those words seconds prior. Harry glared at him, and the glare stopped Tom from walking those few extra steps to meet him. “You can fool yourself all you want, Harry, but you can’t fool me.” 

“I thought I could make things better!” Harry cried. “I thought that’s what we were trying to do!” 

“Is that why you never told anyone about us?” Tom asked, tilting his head.

Harry blew out a harsh breath of air, his eyes narrowing dangerously. It was a sensitive topic, telling people. Tom wanted Harry to tell at least his friends but Harry never did. Harry knew that Tom suspected it was because he was ashamed of being with Tom, and that’s why he was always so bitter about it. The truth, though, was never that Harry was _ashamed_. Harry was terrified of what they might do to Tom if they found out. Harry was terrified that they’d try to use Harry’s relationship to get to Tom. He only wanted to protect Tom. But now, having that thrown in his face in the middle of an argument made Harry furious.

“Oh my god, this again?! Fuck you, Tom!” he snapped. “According to you there never was an ‘us’. Just you being a selfish arsehole!” 

Tom suddenly slammed his fist into the desk hard enough to leave a dent. “I love you!” Tom snarled, his magic lashing out and destroying the window in his anger. Harry wanted to flinch at the display, but he was too angry, too hurt to react. “You belong to me! I _own_ you!”

There it was. The damning phrase. All of the fight seeped out of Harry in a defeated slump, and suddenly, Harry felt incredibly tired. “Love isn’t ownership, Tom,” he whispered softly. All the memories of their relationship were tainted now. Harry truly believed that Tom wasn’t the mad man that Dumbledore claimed him to be. But now, Harry wondered, was their relationship ever real? Harry loved Tom, but Tom was broken and didn’t know how to love. Was their relationship built on ownership? “I thought you knew that, but clearly I was wrong.” 

Harry had nothing else to say. Instead, he spun on his heel and left the office, slamming the door on his way out. Their argument had proven Harry’s greatest fears, and despite it all, Harry still loved Tom. 

But that man in there wasn’t Tom. That man was Voldemort, and Harry held no love for Voldemort. Harry would do what he needed to do, even if it broke all the trust Tom had for him. He was going to find all of Tom’s Horcruxes and heal him if it was the last thing he was going to do. 

When Tom was healed, they could finally be together. For real.  


* * *

  
The necklace didn’t burn Harry the way it burned the others. He didn’t mind wearing it that much, and since it didn’t hurt him, Harry was the one who wore it most of the time. He could see the way Hermione and Ron looked at him with concern, but Harry liked wearing the locket. The familiar warmth and thrum of magic made Harry think of Tom. 

They’ve been on the run for a while now, long enough for the grim reality to set in. After Harry stormed out of Tom’s office that day, Harry returned to Hogwarts to see the destruction of everything sacred. With a heavy heart, Harry realized that he needed to find the rest of Tom’s Horcruxes and heal the insane man, but his best friends refused to let him go alone. 

Harry gave them a very censored version of Harry’s task, explaining that the Horcruxes held Tom’s soul and that they needed to be destroyed, but he didn’t tell them that by destroying the Horcruxes, they were healing Tom. 

The locket, a Horcrux the trio found in Grimmauld Place of all places, was just as manipulative as the real Voldemort, and because of this, only a few weeks after they’d started the hunt, Hermione and Ron got into a huge fight that ended with Ron leaving. 

Ron had ridiculously accused Hermione of sleeping with Harry and then screamed at Harry for using Hermione as a rebound for the break-up. Harry had reluctantly informed his best friends a few days into the hunt that he’d been in a rough break-up with his partner in order to get them to stop prying. When Ron suggested that Hermione was a rebound, Harry laughed, and that made Ron’s face turn red with rage before he stomped off. 

After that, Hermione and Harry fled to the Forest of Dean where they’d been staying for the past month. Their supplies were dwindling low and despite rationing their foods, hunger was a constant companion. Though Harry was used to starvation, Hermione was struggling. Harry longed to make everything better, but Harry couldn’t risk being seen by anyone. 

Voldemort had made Harry Public Enemy Number One in the hopes of finding him, and though Harry knew Voldemort probably wouldn’t hurt him, he still couldn’t risk being taken. So instead, the two of them suffered in a freezing tent with the bare minimum of supplies and no plan. 

Every night Harry fell asleep clutching the locket to his chest, his loneliness and desire to see Tom was almost crippling, but he couldn’t. He just _couldn’t_ go back until Tom was whole again. 

Tonight was no different than the others. After a meager dinner of half a slice of bread, Hermione went to her room and tried her best to muffle the sounds of her sobs into her pillow, while Harry retreated to his own room. He sighed when he closed the door, leaning his head against the wall as helplessness fell over him. There was nothing he could do and it was killing him. 

Harry fell into his bed with a sigh, holding the locket close to his chest as he fell into an uneasy sleep. 

In his dream, familiar arms were wrapped around him, and Harry smiled and snuggled back into Tom’s warm embrace. “Oh darling,” Tom’s voice whispered, and Harry whined, his eyelids fluttering as he moved to open them, only for a hand to cover his eyes and a soft rebuke. “Oh no, love, don’t do that. Keep them closed for me.” 

“Tom…” Harry breathed, and shivered when Tom let out a pleased hum.

Gentle fingers trailed from Harry’s closed eyes to trace the figure of Harry’s face. The gentle caresses made his heart hurt, and he was once again reminded of his loneliness. Harry let out another whine when the fingers dipped into his sensitive neck and began mapping out the contours of the divot in his shoulders. 

“It’s alright,” Tom soothed. “I know, you feel so overwhelmed, sweetheart. You’ve been doing so much and working so hard, haven’t you?”

To his shame, tears sprang to his closed eyes, and Tom gently comforted him, pressing soft kisses to his neck and face. “T-Tom,” Harry cried out, his voice barely louder than a whisper. 

“It’s alright, love,” Tom said sweetly. “I’m here. I can take care of you, now. Would you like that? Don’t you want a break from being in charge?”

Harry nodded wordlessly and was rewarded with a gentle kiss to his lips. Harry gasped, and Tom swallowed the sound when he slipped his tongue inside Harry’s mouth. Harry arched up into Tom’s hold, and whimpered when Tom’s fingers trailed down his chest, tweaking his nipples, and finally slipped under his underwear. 

Harry moaned, the feeling of Tom’s hand on him after so long made him feel so good. The pleasure coursed through his entire body, and it felt like he was melting. “Doesn’t that feel good?” Tom asked, pulling away from Harry’s lips to press tiny, open-mouthed kisses to the side of Harry’s neck. 

“T-Tom!” Harry gasped, moaning out his agreement. 

“Hmm, see how good I can make you feel?” Tom asked, smearing the bead of precum over Harry’s head, making Harry writhe with delight. “Don’t you love this feeling, Harry? Look at you, you’re finally relaxed.” 

“Tom, Tom please,” Harry whispered, bucking his hips to make Tom go faster. 

Tom obliged, tightening his grip and speeding up, making Harry’s legs tense at the sensation. “Look how you melt for me, my dear,” Tom said, but there was something different about it. His voice was sharper, and the gentle undertones from earlier were gone. “You miss this, don’t you? Don’t you want to go back?”

“Wha—”

“No, don’t open your eyes, Harry,” Tom said, stopping Harry just as he’d been about to do so. “Just feel. Don’t you feel good?”

Harry gasped and shuddered when Tom bent down to lick his shaft. “Tom!” he cried, his hands clenching and unclenching. 

Tom chuckled, and the vibrations felt incredible. “Doesn’t this feel nice, Harry? Don’t you miss it? Don’t you want to feel like this again?” Tom asked, and he suddenly started going even faster, and Harry could feel how close he was. “You could have it again, you know. All you have to do is go back.”

Harry frowned, the pleasure threatening to override his thoughts. Go back? What did he mean by that? Go back where? “What are you—”

“Just go back to Voldemort, Harry,” Tom whispered, and Harry felt his blood turn to ice. That’s right, Tom wasn’t here right now because Harry left. Harry left to find all of his Horcruxes. But if Tom wasn’t here right now… “Don’t you miss him?”

Harry’s eyes shot open just as his orgasm overtook him, and Harry cried out, his eyes wide with a mixture of pleasure and horror as Voldemort sat over him. Voldemort—not Tom, this wasn’t Harry’s lover—grinned at him, and the grin was so full of triumph, Harry felt used. “You—”

“What’s wrong, dearest?” Voldemort asked mockingly. “Are you not satisfied?”

“You’re not Tom,” Harry whispered, his hands shaking. “You’re not my Tom.” 

Voldemort shook his head. “No, dearest, I’m not,” he said in a sickening coo. “I’m part of him, though.” 

It took Harry a few seconds to realize what he meant. “You’re… You’re a Horcrux!”

“Thank you for wearing me, darling,” Voldemort said with a grin. “I feel so loved.” 

“How did you…”

“You should go back,” Voldemort said, interrupting him. Harry’s mouth shut with an audible click. “You miss him, and he misses you, too. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I’m doing what I have to do,” Harry said, glaring at him. 

“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort said fondly, shaking his head. “You’re so naive.”

“You—”

“Go home, Harry,” Voldemort said firmly. “Stop this ridiculous game. Go _home_.” 

Harry woke with a startled gasp, his body shuddering. He felt gross and sticky, and it took a second to realize that he came in his pants during the dream. With a disgusted grimace, Harry grabbed his wand and vanished the mess. He felt a weight hit his chest and he looked down to see the locket hanging from his neck. 

He ripped it off his neck and threw it to the ground with a huff, his body shivering from the emotions and the cold. He felt… wrong. Not only did he have a wet dream about Voldemort, but he was also pretty sure it wasn’t just a dream. 

The Horcrux’s words sank into his mind like a parasite, and Harry once again found himself wishing that things were different. He really, really missed Tom. 

“Harry?” Harry jumped when he heard Hermione lightly knock on his door. “Harry, wake up! We… We have to go into town.”

Harry frowned. “Town?”

“We ran out of supplies,” Hermione said sadly. “Harry we need to get more. There’s a town nearby, it’s muggle so we should be safe.” 

Harry nodded, not that she could see, and took in a deep breath, calming himself. He sent one last look at the locket on the ground before he steeled himself and turned around to leave. As much as he wished things were different, they weren’t. 

They were in the middle of a war and Harry was a fighter, not a lover.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Voldemort wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he went into his magic, but a black void of rips and tears was not it. He stared at the tatters of his magic—his _soul_ —and felt his breath catch in the back of his throat. Was this really what his soul looked like? It looked so broken.

“And who’s fault is that?” a voice scoffed. 

Voldemort spun around, and to his surprise, Seven shards stared back at him with disdain. He could see each and every Horcrux, each looking about the age they were created, each wearing an expression of anger and disdain. “My Horcruxes?” he asked, stepping forward in surprise. 

One Horcrux stepped forward, and Tom recognized what looked like a small tattoo of a cup on his hand. “This was a horrible idea,” Goblet snarled, jabbing a finger into Voldemort’s chest. “Look what you’ve done to us!”

“Do you have any idea how much agony we’ve been in?” Diadem asked, his eyes narrowed with fury. “It was hell, Voldemort. You put us through _hell_.”

Voldemort scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t sit there and act like you’re a victim,” Voldemort snapped. “This was a collective choice.” 

“Besides,” Diary said, drawing attention to himself. Voldemort was surprised to see that Diary looked cleared than the others. Where the other Horcruxes looked hazy and transparent, Diary appeared almost solid. _He’s a bigger soul shard_ , his brain supplied. “If we hadn’t done this, we never would’ve met Harry.” 

There were a series of grumbles following that statement, and it was clear that this was a common argument amongst his Horcruxes. It was a little jarring to realize that he had sentient pieces of himself arguing inside his magic. “So what?” Diadem snapped. “Who cares about Harry?”

“You shut your mouth!” snapped Locket. “Harry is what brought us back together. Try to be a little more grateful.”

“The Great Lord Voldemort is grateful to no one!” Diadem hissed. 

“Enough!” Voldemort snapped, stopping the bickering. “Enough! Where is Harry?”

Diary shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said. “Harry isn’t here.”

“He was my Horcrux,” Voldemort argued, his heart beating a little faster. “That means he must be here! Take me to him!”

Diary sighed. “Come with me.” Voldemort grinned triumphantly and followed his Diary Horcrux. Diary led him through the cluster of his older Horcruxes who were currently arguing over the value of Harry, and brought him over to the tiny, barely visible shards.

One shard looked like Nagini, and her shard was so small, she was barely even there. He had to squint to see her. Sitting next to her, huddled up into a tiny ball and sobbing his eyes out, was a tiny, toddler version of Tom Riddle. The toddler was so faint, Voldemort had nearly missed him. 

“What is this?” he demanded, turning back to face Diary. “I told you to bring me to Harry!”

“I did,” Diary said with a shrug. “That’s the shard that was in Harry’s soul.” 

Voldemort turned back to the sobbing toddler. “This… This can’t be,” he said, falling to his knees as he stared at the barely visible child. “This is supposed to be Harry.”

“Harry?” the toddler asked, looking up from his knees. “I miss Harry,” he whined. “I wanna go back! Take me back!”

“What’s wrong with him?” Voldemort asked, incredulous. 

“Look, that shard has spent seventeen years inside a pure, whole soul,” Diary said with a shrug. “Suddenly he’s being ripped away from his host and shoved into this dark and broken one. Do you really think he’s happy with that?”

“This is his soul!” Voldemort snapped. He turned to look at the crying child and growled. “Stop acting like a child! Shouldn’t you be seventeen? Shouldn’t you be older? Stop this childishness at once!”

“I don’t like it here!” the toddler cried. “I want to go back! I hate it here! Take me back! Bring him back! I want Harry!”

“He’s been like this ever since he got here,” Diary supplied unhelpfully. “Nothing can stop him.”

“I hate it here!” the toddler screamed. “Why is it so dark? It’s so broken! There’s so much pain and suffering! I hate it! I hate it! I want to go back to Harry! Harry’s warm!”

“You want to see Harry again?” Voldemort asked, forcing his voice to be gentle. The Toddler paused, looking up at him with confusion. He sniffled and nodded. “I want to see him again, too. Can we help each other?”

“We… We can help each other?” the toddler asked. 

Voldemort nodded. “You help me bring back Harry and you can be warm again,” Voldemort said. “Would you like that?”

“I want Harry,” the toddler said with a determined nod. The soul shard lifted his hands in the universal sign of ‘Carry me’, and Voldemort hesitated for a moment before he lifted the toddler into his arms. The toddler held out his hand and Voldemort could see a tiny red shimmer on his pinky. It was a thin, red string wrapped around his pinky with a bow that led to nothing. “This is Harry,” he said.

Voldemort’s breath hitched, and he could hear the shards behind him grow silent. Voldemort’s hands trembled as he reached for the string, only for the toddler to flinch back and hide his hand, and the string, in his chest. “Wha—”

“It has to be different this time!” the shard cried. 

“What are you talking about?!” Voldemort demanded. “I thought you wanted to see Harry!”

“I do!” the toddler cried. “I miss him! I want him back! But it has to be different this time!”

By now, the other shards realized what was going on, and they crowded around Voldemort and the toddler. “What does that mean?” Voldemort asked. “What has to be different?”

“You have to want Harry to come back!” the toddler exclaimed. 

Voldemort frowned. “I do!” he said. “I want Harry back more than anything! I want him to come back to me, that’s why I’m doing all of this!”

The toddler shook his head. “No, no, no,” he whined, tugging on his hair in a motion so similar to Harry, it made Voldemort’s chest ache. “It has to be different! It has to be different!”

“What does that mean?!” Voldemort asked again. “What’s wrong?”

“You can’t be selfish!” the toddler demanded. “Why do you want Harry back?!”

“Are you serious?” Diadem snapped. “Because of his magic, obviously. The magic is so addicting!”

“No, that’s not it!” Goblet argued. “He’s doing it for the warmth! Remember how warm he was?”

“I thought he was doing it for the war,” Ring said with a shrug. “He’s more powerful with Harry by his side, politically speaking.” 

“No, Harry _belongs_ to Voldemort,” Diary snapped. “Voldemort takes care of what belongs to him. Harry can’t die, he’s Voldemort’s.” 

“No, no, no, no,” the toddler repeated, his tiny body trembling in Voldemort’s hold. “It’s wrong! It has to be different! He can’t come back unless it’s different!”

“Ugh, he’s just talking in circles again,” Locket sighed. “Look, we’re bringing Harry back, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Who cares why we do it.”

“We’re doing it because Harry is important,” Goblet said. “The warmth, the magic, the power. All of it.”

Voldemort frowned, and as the Horcruxes argued with the toddler whimpering in his arms, Voldemort was reminded of Harry’s bright smile and joyful laugh. He loved that laugh, hearing it always made Voldemort smile. He really missed Harry, and he wanted him back but it wasn’t for the power or the magic or the warmth.

He wanted Harry back because… 

“I love him,” Voldemort whispered, and despite the softness of his voice, everyone heard it. The fighting Horcruxes grew silent, and in his hold, the toddler looked up at him, his eyes displaying hope. 

“What did you say?” Diadem asked. “You love him? Don’t be ridiculous—”

“I love Harry Potter,” Voldemort said, his voice ringing with conviction. “I want to bring him back, not for his magic, not for his warmth, not for the power, but because I love him and I miss him.” 

“You—”

“You can’t be selfish this time,” the toddler said, hesitantly reaching his hand out. “You can’t be selfish, it needs to be different.”

“It will be,” Voldemort vowed, carefully reaching for the hand. His fingers brushed the red string, and instantly, familiar warmth shot up his spine. Harry. His fingers wrapped around the string, and he bent down, bringing the string up to his face. “I love you, Harry James Potter,” he whispered to the string. “Come back to me. Please.”

He lightly kissed the string and then he _tugged_. 

He opens his eyes with a gasp, and suddenly he’s back in the Astronomy Tower. In front of him, Granger and Weasley scramble to stand, their eyes wide with hope as their gaze flits back towards Harry’s still body. 

“Did it work?!” Granger cried, racing over to Harry. “Is he back?”

“I… I don’t know…” Voldemort whispered, stumbling over to Harry. He stared at Harry’s body, silently begging for him to move. 

Voldemort stood there in silence for a long time, his eyes not leaving Harry’s body. He had been taken out of his casket and placed in a soft bed, and he looked so peaceful there, he could almost be sleeping. 

“It’s been almost an hour,” Granger whispered, her voice defeated. 

“It didn’t work, did it?” Weasley asked. 

“I don’t think so,” Granger said with a sigh. “I’m so sorry.”

Voldemort said nothing, but his eyes filled with tears. How humiliating. He was about to break down sobbing in front of a mudblood and a blood traitor, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He thought it worked. He thought that he brought Harry back. 

He was so close… 

Voldemort’s grip on Harry’s cold hand tightened as he bent his head forward and sobbed silently. He was too late. Maybe if he’d been a little faster, Harry would have woken up. It took too long, and now Voldemort was all alone. 

“Are you watching me while I sleep, again? Tom, I thought we talked about this,” a voice said. The voice, while hoarse, was just as musical as it always was. He could hear Granger and Weasley let out surprised gasps that quickly turned to sobs, but Voldemort was too busy staring at him. 

Harry was awake, his green eyes shining with mirth as he stared at Voldemort with a grin. His body, no longer cold with death, was a healthy color, a gentle flush to his cheeks and warmth flowing through his veins. The tears continued to slide down his face as he stared at Harry. 

“ _Harry_ ,” he breathed. 

Harry grinned. “You’re such a creep, Tom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I'm sorry it took so long to update, but hopefully, this chapter makes up for it. Were you guys expecting this? If you liked this chapter please leave a kudos and a comment, they make my day! :)  
> \------------------------  
> Harry: *sees Voldemort staring at him when he wakes up*  
> Harry: *realizes Voldemort was watching him sleep again*  
> Harry: It's a creeper!  
> Harry: awwwww maaaaan

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a kudos and a review if you liked this chapter! :)


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